


wherever i go there’s a shadow of you

by bryndentully



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R Plus L Equals J, Salty Teens, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-03-29 19:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13934139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryndentully/pseuds/bryndentully
Summary: It's one or the other. Sansa or duty. Sansa or honor. Jon is no fit man to choose, and yet the choice is easy.In Ser Alliser's place, Jon wanders the realm, asking any king who'll listen for help against the Others. Sansa joins him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the start of _A Clash of Kings_. Thanks for reading!

There's going to be a Great Ranging, the Old Bear informs him, but Jon isn't going. Not yet.

"But—" Jon's aghast. He already proved himself, didn't he? Pyp and Grenn and Sam brought Jon back, and then he _swore_ that he was Mormont's man. "You said I was your squire. You said my place is _here_." Here, or beyond the Wall. Wherever the Lord Commander goes, Jon will follow.

"It is. You're a brother of the Night's Watch, boy. Now, you need to act like one."

Jon waits for the order, Mormont eyes him, and the raven screams, "BOY! BOY! BOY!"

 _Man_ , Jon wants to correct it, sullen. Then, Jeor Mormont seals Jon's destiny, at least for the next several months.

"You'll join Conwy with recruitment, Jon. For _now_ ," Mormont growls, seeing Jon's mutinous look. "I can't trust you or Thorne _not_ to kill each other."

Insulted and disappointed, Jon is silent.

The Old Bear has a smidgen of sympathy, but not much. His gaze holds all of its usual, inescapable sternness. "Bring me new brothers, boy. Any you can find. Scour the dungeons, the pot-shops, the villages, the harbors. Show your devotion to the Watch, and you'll join me beyond the Wall."

* * *

The Great Ranging won't go on for some time, Jon realizes with some relief. The Old Bear confers with Bowen Marsh, getting counts of supplies in Castle Black, Shadow Tower, and Eastwatch. There's little chance of finding food in the Haunted Forest or the Frostfangs—the wildlings would've picked the area clean as near as they dared to the Wall. Mormont ignores Thoren Smallwood, insisting that Jon's uncle Benjen is _still_ First Ranger. Finally, the Old Bear squabbles with Othell Yarwyck, unsatisfied with the upkeep of the tunnels below the Wall. Jon watches Yarwyck relent, and the Old Bear grin, like it's a quarrel among friends and not some of the most senior officers in the Night's Watch, let alone the Seven Kingdoms.

"Diplomacy, boy," says Mormont, when Jon brings him supper. "You'll see."

Jon isn't so sure about Mormont's diplomacy, but he keeps his own counsel. The more obedient he is, the sooner he can return and accompany the search party beyond the Wall. He won't let himself be fazed by the delay. If whatever's out there has waited this long, Jon can wait a few moons.

When Jon's gathered what meager belongings he has to his name, he joins Conwy in the yard. Sam, Pyp, and Grenn show up to say goodbye.

"It won't be forever," Sam offers, ever the optimist. Jon's glad Sam has found his place among the group. He'll be safer that way.

Matthar nods in agreement, joining them before he and Toad set out a short patrol with some rangers. "You'll be back sooner than you think."

"Don't get lost," Pyp japes, eyebrows waggling like worms. Toad cackles. Grenn only looks confused, but Jon gets the joke. 

Ghost seems to know that he's to stay at the Wall. He gazes up at Jon, looking forlorn. Jon scratches behind Ghost's ears in apology.

"Remember, Jon," says Mormont, as Jon climbs onto his horse, with Conwy atop another, "keep that temper of yours in check. We need the men."

"JON! JON! JON!" The raven screeches. Jon isn't quite sure what to think about leaving the Wall, but a part of him will miss that stupid raven.

Looking at the motley crew of his friends, fellow black brothers, and the Lord Commander, Jon feels a strange sense of loss. This mission is partly a test and partly a punishment, he's gathered, meant to measure Jon's honor and vows, while keeping him and Ser Alliser apart. It means sending Jon away from his new home and into the thick of the war, where temptation to leave grows the closer and closer he'll get to Robb. The Old Bear won't even allow Jon to take one of Eastwatch's vessels to King's Landing—Jon must stick to the kingsroad, lengthening the journey significantly.

The decision should be easy. Maybe Jon should know better by now. Nothing's _ever_ easy.

"Farewell, my lord," says Jon, and follows Conwy out of Castle Black.

* * *

Conwy isn't the loquacious type, like Sam, so he and Jon spend most of the expedition south in silence. Jon searches for familiar trees and ridges, half convinced he's going to recognize one or another. Stony summits reveal tall watchtowers, narrow rivers dart from east to west, and flint hills, grey and rugged, rise in the distance. Holdfasts, farms, and inns dot the landscape, reminding Jon of his last foray into the area. He'd just been going in the opposite direction, accompanied by Benjen, Tyrion, Ghost, Yoren, and the lot from the Fingers, clueless to what truly awaited him.

It wasn't so long ago, Jon knows, but it feels like a lifetime has passed. He's no longer quite so green.

They only stop in Winterfell for a single night, but the Jon that got used to the chill of the Wall thaws right out at the sight of his brothers. Rickon shouts his delight and asks hundreds of questions; Bran smiles from ear to ear and graciously tolerates Jon ruffling his hair; Summer and Shaggy leap at him and send Jon careening into a puddle. There's plenty of new faces in the yard—Osha, Bran's new wildling friend, a pair of little Frey boys, and Jojen and Meera Reed, the children of Father's friend Howland—but Hodor and Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik are among the mainstays of his youth, and usher Jon into the castle like _he's_ the one who is King in the North, not Robb.

"Did your fingers freeze and fall off?" Rickon demands at dinner, smearing pease onto a spoon to lob it at Big Walder's face. He misses.

Watching Jon sit at the high table with all of his extremities in working order, Ser Rodrik chuckles.

"Did you kill any wildlings yet?" Little Walder asks. Osha scowls at the back of his head, then at Jon for good measure.

 _A thing worse than a wildling_ , Jon thinks. He won't show this lot what's in the jar, not until the journey back.

Things were plenty simpler when Jon was boy. That's what Winterfell feels like to him now, in all its warm comfort and nostalgia. Childhood.

"What's it like on the Wall?" Bran wonders, and Jon answers him—it's like _nothing_ else in the world. Bran beams, envious.

"Cold," says Conwy, when the question posed to him. He chews a forkful of mutton, disinterested in conversation, as Jon as learned. "Busy."

The next morning, Jon says his goodbyes, less upset to do so than the last time around, and guides Barrow out of Winterfell.

Jon and Conwy move ever onward, bearing stony, neutral witness to the War of the Five Kings.

Jon's determined to hold his temper, if only to prove the Old Bear wrong about him, but his promises feel not but little once he discovers the state of affairs in the South. The Riverlands are nothing like what Jon has pictured, having grown up on stories of the climatic Battle of the Trident. This is what he's missed all along as a child—the costs of war. Smoke devours the sky and chokes the air; farmland as far as the eye can see is burned and useless; smallfolk flee in large numbers, too afraid of what's over their shoulders to pay much mind to a pair of shabbily cloaked crows. Some hunger for their supplies, clothes, horses, and gold, although Jon's unsheathing of Longclaw usually does the trick and sends them scurrying.

It's almost a relief to see Duskendale and Rosby. War hasn't reached either town yet, lifting some of the weight on Jon's conscience. Soon enough, however, Conwy guides the two of them into the city that started everything, wholly unconcerned while Jon's agape, anxious, and incensed. Remembering himself is a challenge when Joffrey is so close (and not expecting Jon). He's no longer a part of the realms of men. He's no longer free to act on old grudges. He's a watcher on the wall, a fire in the darkness, a shield set between Westeros and whatever lies out in the cold.

And killing Joffrey would put Jon in league with the likes of Jamie Lannister. He doesn't want to be remembered as Jon Snow the Kingslayer.

Nonetheless, Jon has to catch his breath as Barrow ambles through the doors of the Red Keep.

"Brothers of the Watch," greets the steward. He isn't pleased to see Jon or Conwy and doesn't bother to hide it. "What brings you to our halls?"

"Recruits," says Conwy.

"And another matter of great urgency," Jon adds, focusing on his mission.

"King Joffrey is occupied with...matters of state, although the Lord Hand is in session, if—"

Conwy mutters something about finding a room, leaving Jon to beg for the Hand of the King and small council's help alone. Jon sighs.

"Lead the way," Jon orders of the steward, and nudges Barrow on.

* * *

"...a daughter will suffice when there is no son," Tyrion Lannister explains as Jon enters the throne room and slips within the throng of people. Like many before him, Jon suspects, his eyes go first to the Iron Throne. Jagged metal and twisted edges warp around Tyrion's frame, with the swords of Aegon's enemies splaying in all directions. _I'm the Young Dragon_ , Jon used to say when he sparred with Robb. _I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight_. It is hard to believe that all his favorite heroes sat on or served the seat in front of him. Jon's own lord grandfather and uncle stood in here. Even his father had, when the Rebellion was ending. _So much tragedy born of that throne_ , Jon thinks. _A scourge to the Starks._

"They shall be treated gently and given high places at court, so long as their fathers commit no new treasons."

"My lord Hand," the messenger says, face sapping of all color, "Lord Stark will never consent to these terms."

Jon perks up. Lord Stark—Robb. _They can only mean Robb._ Jon schools his features into blankness, but his heart thunders in his ears like summer storm, rattling up against his ribs. Tyrion begins a frank warning of what host awaits Robb from the depths of Casterly Rock. Stannis and Renly will fight against each other rather than ally with Jon's brother, and Dorne...Dorne intends to wed one of its princes to Princess Myrcella, further cementing Robb's precarious position. Jon stares sightlessly ahead, struggling to control the traitorous thoughts that nearly made him abandon the Watch. The king's plans are in earshot, or at least an approximation of them. All Jon has to do is find a raven and send something off. No one knows Jon is here. His eyes slide to the king's justice. _Ice_. Jon can bring that back, like Robb demanded in the terms. And— _is that Sansa_?

Jon's mouth falls open. It _is_. Pale as milk, and her head bowed, Jon would know that girl anywhere. He stands as high as he can, peering over the heads of the court. She's taller than she used to be, and prettier. They've both grown up, Jon realizes. He forces himself to stay still. What's his next move? Why is he _here_ , if not for her? _For them_? Jon looks around, searching frantically in the crowd. Gods, where is Arya?

“As you say," the messenger concedes, smoothing his hair down. The conference is slowing to a halt, both parties unsatisfied. "And his sisters?”

 _Stay away from my sister_ , Jon thinks, while the next thought barrels down into _I need to get to my sisters_.

Tyrion looks at Sansa, face full of pity.

“Until such time as he frees my brother Jaime, unharmed, they shall remain here as hostages. How well they are treated depends on him.”

 _Night gathers, and now my watch begins_ , Jon tells himself. The vows. He knows them. _It shall not end until my death..._

A herald steps forward. “If any man has other matters to set before the King's Hand, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence.”

"I will be heard," says Jon in a voice that feels like it doesn't truly belong to him, striding through the throng of people. They part for him, spreading out and away like Sansa's hand fans. He doesn't dare look at Sansa. Tyrion peers down at him from the Iron Throne, looking genuinely surprised.

"Jon Snow," says Tyrion, "you should've sent word. Jon and I walked the Wall together," he explains, for the court and small council's benefit.

"The late Lord Eddard's son, if my little birds do not deceive me," says Varys, airily. "You are the true likeness of him, my good brother."

"You are very far from the Watch," Littlefinger observes, sounding bored. Jon mislikes the look of him at once. "May I ask why?"

" _I'll_ ask the questions, Lord Baelish." Tyrion returns his attention to Jon. "How may we help you, Jon?"

 _You can give me Arya_ , Jon longs to say. _You can give me Sansa. You can let us go on our way._

“I am sent to tell you that we found two rangers, long missing." He's glad for the brief distraction. "They were dead, yet when we brought the corpses back to the Wall they rose again in the night. One slew Ser Jaremy Rykker, while the second tried to murder the Lord Commander.”

Someone laughs. Jon glances back, but he only sees impassive faces, and Sansa. He looks elsewhere before she can meet his eyes, anxious of giving himself away. He doesn't have a plan, but he has a _want_. He wants to get her out of here and out of this city, no matter what it costs him.

“I trust that the Old Bear survived this attack?”

Jon has the old gods, Ghost, the burning drapes, and his own scarred hands to thank for that. “He did.”

“And that your brothers killed these, ah, dead men?”

 _Not until after the wight that was once Jafer Flowers killed five people, including Ser Jaremy._ “We did.”

“You're certain that they are dead this time?” Tyrion asks. It's hard to tell if it's a jape. Jon's never enjoyed being laughed at.

A sellsword snorts. _It was_. Jon frowns.

“Truly, truly dead?” Tyrion presses, when Jon is too slow to answer. This time, the crowd guffaws openly.

“They were dead the first time,” Jon insists. "Pale and cold, with black hands and feet. I even brought Othor's hand, torn from his corpse by Ghost."

"Ghost?" Grandmaester Pycelle questions, already lost. Maester Aemon would speak circles around Pycelle, by Jon's haughty estimation.

"His direwolf," Tyrion answers, looking troubled. Jon doesn't dare hope, but he prays for the tides to turn. A chance. That's all he needs.

Baelish eyes Jon, ignoring Tyrion's earlier warning. “And where is this...charming token?”

Jon strides forward, armed with the glass jar that contains Othor's hand. To Jon's relief, it hasn't decomposed. The fingers still wriggle, desperate to squeeze the life out of some unlucky soul. The sellsword meets Tyrion at the foot of the Iron Throne as he descends, watching Jon offer the jar. He has only some measure of Tyrion Lannister since their talk on the Wall, but Jon sees genuine shock in his eyes as Othor's hand scrapes against the glass. "This is no mummer's trick. The dead walk, my lord," Jon tells him, just for Tyrion's ears. "The Watch needs your help."

The small council visibly strains to peek at the glass jar, but none dare to stand up. Jon eases to the side, further blocking their view. Moving to obscure the view of the council just has him facing the court, where a hundred voices whisper amongst themselves. Sansa says nothing at all.

Tyrion stares at the wriggling fingers for a moment. Jon taps the glass, just to provoke the disembodied Othor. The fingers curl into a claw.

"Signal the herald," Tyrion orders at a normal volume, and the sellsword strides off to do just that, abruptly dismissing the confused court.

"Jon," the Hand of the King mutters, wan and worried, "come with me."

* * *

"Take it."

Jon catches the jar before it smashes to the floor. "My lord?"

They've moved into the Tower of the Hand's audience chamber. Jon felt Sansa's gaze on him as the court left, foreboding as the Haunted Forest.

 _I'll come back for you_ , Jon silently promises her, despite not knowing how, despite not knowing when. _You and Arya._

The Old Bear had been exhausted then grumpy after Othor's attack. Tyrion Lannister is...dumbfounded, Jon guesses.

"'The cold winds are rising'," Tyrion reads aloud, seemingly unable to stand still. "'White shadows in the woods, unquiet dead in the halls'..."

The Hand rolls up the missive, deliberating. At last, Tyrion speaks, sounding resigned. "What would you have me do?"

That's an easy one. "Give us all the men you have."

"Yoren scoured the dungeons. There's only a few prisoners left." He regards Jon with disappointment. "I sent seven men to the Wall as well."

The ship must've made berth at Eastwatch when Jon and Conwy moving south. "We'll need more than that, my lord." One wight murdered five men without needing rest nor reinforcements. _Seven new men of the Watch will kill about one and a half wights_ , Jon muses, trying to think smart. Most of the Wall is staffed by cast-offs and oathbreakers, thieves and gutter scum. Some of these oathbreakers and scum have become his friends, but Jon wants the men who walked the Wall in the Age of Heroes. "We need experienced fighters. Knights, if you have them. Squires and pages will do in a pinch." Jon can train them himself. If they can keep their shields up, he won't ring all of their heads like bells. They may yet have a chance.

Tyrion looks unhappy. "A pinch. Well, if you cart this hand around...perhaps you will convince the superstitious pages."

Jon doesn't understand, and says so. Tyrion sighs.

"You named me your friend on the Wall, Jon Snow, and I believe you. I've seen the evidence with mine own eyes. As _your_ friend, however, I must tell you that the rest of the realm sees...whatever they wish to see," Tyrion explains, finally taking a seat himself. He looks older. Jon wonders if it's the war or the conversation that's aged him. The attack aged Mormont, and visibly. Now all Mormont has a mind for is the Great Ranging. "They see a dwarf instead of the King's Hand," Tyrion continues, reminding Jon of their words at Winterfell during King Robert's welcoming feast. "They see a bastard like yourself instead of a brave man you've become. Take as many men as you wish, you have my leave. But...I suggest you _show_ the realm what it's dealing with, Jon. _Demand_ the men. Demand action. It's been thousands of years since the Long Night. We've all forgotten."

Jon will need to be convincing, is what Tyrion isn't saying. The world likes to remain as it is, with as little change as possible. Bastards should know their place. Men should be loyal to their kings, no matter how wretched. Knights are always kind and good and just. There are no white shadows in the woods, no dead things in the darkness. Men of the Watch forget their families and find new brothers in order to serve the realm. Grumkins and snarks are as mythical as the Others. Jon will need to be _very_ convincing, if the Night's Watch—and the Seven Kingdoms—are to survive.

Some of these things are absolutes. Some are not.

"If the Night's Watch doesn't remember," Jon says, "who will?"

 _Who will_ , the raven chanted when the Old Bear offered the same words to Jon. _**Who** will?_

Jon wonders who will remember Sansa and Arya, left all alone in King's Landing. He curls the fingers of his scarred hand into a fist.

Tyrion is wry again. "That sounds like Mormont."

"It was."

"Any sign of your uncle?" Tyrion asks, changing the subject.

Jon sobers. "No. Othor was one of the rangers, and Jafer as well. They came back...just wrong." They remembered Mormont. Jon is certain of that.

Jon hasn't even _mentioned_ the King-Beyond-the Wall, and the wildlings deserting their villages. He probably should've led with that. Convincing the realm of the Others depends on the token in the jar, but arming the Watch against wildlings has never been worth questioning.

"He'll return, Jon. Have faith."

Jon gets to his feet, glass jar in hand. Faith is like honor, as his father used to say. You either have it, or you don't. "We'll see."

"Scour the dungeons," Tyrion reminds him, thoughtful. "Check pot-shops. Root around in Rosby and Duskendale. Entice the smallfolk in Flea Bottom and Cobbler's Square with promises of food, if you must. We're getting little enough in the city already, thanks to the Tyrells."

The food at the Wall isn't worth boasting about, but it'll fill somebody's belly well enough. That's all it will take; few willingly starve to death.

"They've joined Lord Renly?" Gossip en route to the Crownlands was centered on little else but shortages. "Or was it Lord Stannis?"

"Renly," Tyrion confirms, reaching for a cup to pour himself some wine. Jon intends to leave him to it, and return on the morrow with Conwy after a good night's sleep, but Tyrion's expression stops him in his place. "Another matter, Jon," the Hand of the King says, easing back into his chair.

First a discussion of the dead, and now it's on to another matter. Tyrion's assimilated just as well as the black brothers, Jon notes in amazement.

"As you say, my lord."

Tyrion sips the wine, then levels him with a probing look. "Lady Sansa cannot join you, Jon."

It never occurs to Jon that Tyrion may've lied about believing him.

Jon's blanch nearly makes him drop the jar. He clutches it to his chest as Othor's fingers scramble uselessly, abashed. "Excuse me?"

"I know you, Jon. You lie no better than your father did." Tyrion's polite expression has slipped into a cautious one. He even looks...sad.

Jon stiffens. He mislikes everything about _this_ matter.

"I must beg you, as a man of the Watch. Do not interfere in the Iron Throne's affairs. You've sworn a vow, and I expect you to honor it."

"I know my vows, my lord. You need not worry about me."

"Yet, I do," says Tyrion. "She's your sister, but a valuable hostage to Joffrey. To us," Tyrion amends, apologetic. Jon knows him well enough to understand it—on some level, Tyrion Lannister regrets his words, but goes on anyway. "She has a part in the war, like your brother. You do not."

For a long while, there's no noise in the chamber, save for the crackling of the hearth and the dull scrapes of Othor's hand.

Finally, Jon allows a boyish thought to surface, to the man's mingled satisfaction and dismay. "You said you were my friend, Tyrion."

"I am," Tyrion protests, indignant, "but—"

"You can't ask me to condone your plans," Jon says, flatly, stubbornly. "A friend would not ask a friend to ignore his family."

"Your family is the Watch, Jon."

"That never stopped Uncle Benjen." Of course, Jon won't mention Benjen's long absences. That would sully the story.

Tyrion looks knowing, yet resigned. "Your uncle visited Winterfell in peacetime. Your father was a lord and friend to the Watch, like dozens of other Starks before him. If Benjen stepped in your boots, he would come to the same conclusion I did. All ties have been severed, Jon. You serve for life."

"I know my vows!" Jon snaps back. Why does everyone continue to question him about them?

"I _do_ recall you saying as much." Tyrion busies himself with a new cup of wine, giving Jon the time he needs to calm down.

A part of Jon wants to smash the glass jar against Tyrion's head. The other half succumbs to reason like the body submits to poison, slowly and painfully. "She's my sister," Jon manages once he has his voice under control, feeling like his stomach will simply rip itself apart from the inside.

Tyrion raises the cup in salute to Sansa. "She is. She'll be treated well, if your brother is as smart as you are." Jon wants to smack it out of his hand.

Jon pauses, remembering an important detail with icy clarity. " _Sansa_ will be treated well," he repeats, slower, "but what of Arya?"

Uncomfortable, Tyrion shifts in his seat. "We don't know where she is," he admits, watching Jon carefully. "The gold cloaks are still searching."

Longclaw could cut Tyrion to pieces in seconds, but Jon refrains, denying every temptation to unsheath it. Arya is gone, Sansa is a prisoner, Father is dead, and Robb is a king. Left to the isolation of the Wall, Jon still has his doubts that all of this happened, especially in the mornings, when the world is still hazy and unclear. It could be a dream, like the ones of the Others strangling him in his sleep, flames melting their faces and jellying their starry blue eyes. Everything can return to what it was, if he only keeps his eyes closed, and ignores the sounds of Winterfell waking up...

"For what it's worth, Jon, you have my condolences. You've chosen a lonely path with little to show for it. No one will ever write a song of you," Tyrion observes, "or even remember your name." He inspects his glass, suddenly gloomy. "You're a hero, Jon. You should be proud of yourself."

"You said to never forget who I am," says Jon, bitter. "I'm just a bastard. There's nothing I can be proud of."

With that, Jon takes his leave.

* * *

He takes his time seeking out Conwy, wanting some privacy to sort himself out. Without Ghost at his side, Jon is left to his own thoughts and unable to use his wolf as a sounding board. Bereft of an especially talented listener that does little to discourage him, Jon sighs, slowing his pace.

 _You've sworn a vow_ , Tyrion had warned, the accusations dogging Jon's steps, _and I expect you to honor it_.

A petty part of Jon wonders what any Lannister knows about honor. The rational part of him, the one still succumbing to common sense, argues faintly about Tyrion's position. Made the Hand of the King, Tyrion has no choice but to obey Joffrey's wishes. Robb couldn't ignore what honor and the North demanded when their father was murdered; Jon suspects Tyrion would suffer if he put himself before the whims of the Lannisters.

 _I'm not a Stark_ , Jon reminds himself. All he wanted was to be one, and all it takes is a king's word. He isn't likely to get Joffrey's.

Jon hasn't seen neither hide nor hair of Joffrey or the queen since arriving in King's Landing, to his relief. He doesn't know what he would've done to them if given the opportunity to be face-to-face. Throttle Joffrey, perhaps? Stick him with the pointy end, like he advised Arya to do with Needle?

He wonders where Arya is right now. If she's all right, if she's well. He wonders what Sansa is thinking right now. If she's all right, if she's well.

From Jon's place in a Flea Bottom alley, the spires of the Red Keep are just visible to his eyes, arrowing to the heavens from atop Aegon's High Hill. Sansa is within his grasp, if he only looks for her. If he only breaks his vows for her, his word for her, his promises for her. Jon wrests his eyes away, swallowing thickly. The choice has him over a barrel. It isn't fair. It isn't _right_. Either Jon steps out of line as an oathbreaker, or Jon endures the shame of abandoning Sansa for the rest of his life, guarding the realms of men as a shadow of himself. Choosing hurts, Aemon had informed Jon, struck by his own dilemma when the Targaryen children were butchered by the Mountain. Duty costs more than any boy can ever know.

Jon wanted to be a hero so badly, as badly as Sansa wanted to be a lady, a princess, the wife of a king. They're both paying for it now.

He wonders what his father would do, if dropped in Jon's place.

 _So I will have an answer from you, Lord Snow, and I will have it now_ , Mormont had blustered, once Jon returned to the Wall thanks to the efforts of his friends, insisting Jon was truly meant to be there. _Are you a brother of the Night’s Watch...or only a bastard boy who wants to play at war_?

The answer was so clear to him—them—more than a month ago. Now, Jon isn't so sure. He doesn't _know_.

Collecting the jar with Othor's hand, Jon goes on his way. Conwy left word about staying somewhere on Pisswater Bend like Yoren used to, a creature of habit. _Charming_ , Jon thinks. According to the nearest drunk that Jon takes aside and wrangles directions out of, he isn't far away. Thoughts yet unresolved and swirling in dizzying circles like Tyrion's wine, Jon sidesteps a group of louts and enters the nearest inn he can find, knowing his cloak will do the talking. The innkeep spots him and jerks a thumb toward the staircase. Jon simply nods in reply, and moves on.

"Conwy?" Jon asks, rapping on the first door with his knuckles. "It's Jon."

No answer. Jon turns the knob and enters, catching the jar before it falls from his grip. Conwy is here, all right, but he's _dead_.

Jon sets the jar down on the mantle and approaches the body, half-afraid, half-disbelieving. Conwy's eyes are glassy and his skin is cool to the touch—Jon guesses he's been dead for hours. Conwy hasn't passed away in the night, either, like old men often do; his throat's been cut.

"Oh my."

Jon turns around, hand raising to Longclaw's hilt. A man of Sam's girth stands in the doorway, astonishment all over his scruffy face.

"Call the City Watch," Jon orders, wanting an explanation. Instead, the man closes the door behind him, shutting them both within the room.

"There's no point in that, my dear boy," the stranger says, his voice now abruptly different. And familiar. Jon frowns. "This was planned."

"And how did you learn of this?" For all Jon knows, this man murdered Conwy and returned to kill Jon. If so, Longclaw will set him to rights.

The voice registers. "My little birds are everywhere," the man known as Lord Varys admits, enigmatic. "I know, hear, and see everything."

* * *

Jon watches the spymaster like a hawk, prepared to act at a moment's notice. Any wrong word can bring the gold cloaks in, or worse, the Kingsguard. He doesn't know what to do _next_. Conwy's death is an afterthought with the war going on, but Jon thinks the blame will fall to him.

"Your arrival to King's Landing was not missed, Lord Snow."

Ser Alliser's nickname has followed him south. He doesn't appreciate it any more than being known as Ned Stark's bastard. "Jon."

"Jon," says Varys, delicately avoiding a pool of Conwy's blood. He shudders. "You've made an enemy in the king and queen regent."

Conwy wasn't the intended victim, Jon determines, extrapolating from the clue. It's a generous clue.

"I didn't," Jon answers, stiffly. He can deny allegiances all he likes, but not his own actions. "I swore my vows to the Watch." That isn't a lie.

Varys eyes him, a curious smile on his face, then tskes, like Jon has erred in a lesson. "Your interest in your sisters indicates...otherwise."

He must've eavesdropped, Jon decides in dismay, and schools his features into blankness. "I swore a vow," he repeats. "I didn't forget my family."

Varys makes a sympathetic noise. "Of course not. Your own father was very much the same."

Jon pauses. It shouldn't be a surprise. His father was the previous Hand of the King, after all. "You knew him?"

Lord Varys is even more inscrutable than Tyrion Lannister. It doesn't help Jon much.

"I admired Lord Eddard," says Varys. "He made himself a liar in front of gods and men to save Sansa's life. If you _believe_ in the gods, of course."

And then Jon had almost fled the Wall, grieving and desperate to help Robb. Jon lets out a breath, banishing the memory in favor of his new problem. The choices have left him with two paths. Go north with recruits, and return to duty; remain south, and aid his sister and brother.

"It didn't work," Jon mutters, abandoning restraint. Varys can have Jon's head off if he wants. He has too much to consider. "She's still a hostage."

"She's alive," Varys points out, sounding almost displeased. He isn't speaking in simpers, Jon notes. Odd. "The sacrifice ensured her survival, Jon."

Jon sits down on the other pallet. He's starving and exhausted, but only despair and confusion and dull pain can touch him now. "I don't know what to do," he admits, reduced to being the boy again. His initial confidence evaporated when he stormed out of Tyrion's solar. "I—" He looks at Conwy. What is he to do with the body? What should Jon write to Lord Mormont? Will the bird make it to the Wall? And in the south, his concerns are no less great. Arya's missing, Sansa is a prisoner of Queen Cersei, Robb is up to his ears in battles, and the dead walk beyond the Wall.

Mormont insists that the last of all is the most important war in Westeros. Jon had agreed with him. Once.

But...

That was in Castle Black. Things are different here. Dilemmas rise like wights, and questions flare up like fires. Jon is well out of his depth.

Varys glances at Conwy, then the glass jar. Jon doesn't know what to make of that look. "This can be dealt with. The rest is up to you."

"Will you help me?" Jon asks. It's one or the other. Sansa or duty. Sansa or honor. Jon is no fit man to choose, and yet the choice is easy.

Nothing's ever easy, things are more different than he could've ever dreamed of, and the known world is torn asunder, but Jon has his answer.

All that matters now is the Spider's.

For a long, lurching moment of dread, much like the moment Dead Othor charged at him, Jon fears the worst.

"Very well," Varys finally answers, features unreadable. "For the good of realm...I will."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your reviews were so sweet! Thank you for the response! It's my first Jon x Sansa fic, so I was a little nervous.
> 
> Just a note for the chapter ahead, I researched the Red Keep and Maegor's Holdfast all day, and I know the latter has no secret passageways, but I put them in anyway. I also delayed most of the plots outside of King's Landing, which will get addressed later.
> 
> Enjoy!

"The Wall?" The chandler in Cobbler's Square guffaws. "You've got some nerve, crow!"

"Better there than here," Jon argues, probably losing all the groundwork he'd built up over the past half hour trying to convince this man to join him. Jon's patience also needs some minding, as it turns out. "Stannis or Renly will attack King's Landing any day now, by land or by sea." 

His prospective candidate slaps a wad of spit onto the cobblestones. "No king has cause to care about the likes o'me, crow. Piss off."

Frowning, Jon slips back into the congestion milling around the Guildhall of Alchemists. Taking the black is about as appealing as broken armor, a smith remarked to Jon, not bothering to at least _pretend_ to take the idea under advisement. A stonemason laughed and kept wheezing before Jon could even get a word in edgewise. Tanners retreat back into their shops when Jon comes down an alleyway, drapers busy themselves with their wares rather than meet his eyes, and sailors hastily scuttle back to their vessels before Jon can lift a finger to draw someone's attention.

 _If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price_ , Uncle Benjen had warned him.

That night at the welcoming feast, Benjen Stark knew the price of the Watch better than anyone else at Winterfell. Why didn't Jon _listen_?

"That's some jape," a weaver informs Jon, inspecting the glass jar. "From Myr, you say?"

"I didn't," Jon replies, trying to be patient again. "This was Othor. He died on a ranging but after he rose as a—"

With the explanation falls on deaf ears and more laughter, Jon is on his way again, tucking the jar back into its satchel.

Shielding his eyes from the sun and eager for a reprieve, Jon ducks into a pot-shop. The food shortages have forced the cooks to resort to suspect meats, but Jon's gotten accustomed to Three-Finger Hobb's palate _and_ roasting his own modest kills over a fire when Conwy was still alive. This is nothing. The bowl o'brown flips his stomach into knots, but it's the first thing he's eaten in what seems like (and probably has been) days, so Jon doesn't mind much. Licking the last dregs from his spoon, Jon hands over a few coppers and wearily returns to the streets of Flea Bottom.

The novelty of the big city hasn't worn off, even if the smell is something Jon would like to vanquish. Not even the black brothers stink this bad, he estimates, pulling on his moleskin gloves again. The city's twists and turns hold his interest, nevertheless. It's _huge_. He and Robb and Theon once joined Jon's father on business in White Harbor when they were just wee boys, but King's Landing dwarfs the Manderly seat significantly. The history appeals to him, too. Jon's walking the same streets as the likes of Daemon Targaryen, the uncle of Rhaenyra and Commander of the City Watch, Baelor Breakspear, the beloved prince that was killed at the Ashford tourney's trial of seven, and even Jaehaerys I, the Old King.

He wonders if the novelty has worn off for Sansa. _Doubtless_. It doesn't matter if Queen Alysanne slept in the Red Keep over a hundred years ago, Jon reasons, not when _this_ queen regent had their lord father beheaded and ordered the gold cloaks to kill bastards in their beds, by the talk, and the soon-to-be sixteen year old king is shooting crossbow bolts at mobs outside the castle and shouting at the survivors to eat their own dead.

Joffrey should count himself lucky that _these_ dead men don't get back up again.

Jon strolls onto the Street of Seeds. This one will bring him straight to the Red Keep. It's high time to poke around the dungeons, Jon decides.

He was nervous as a maiden on the first day, eager to glimpse the mysteries and wonders of the unknown domain he's been sent to; by the fourth, Jon is a seasoned pedestrian, and committed to the mission at hand. He just has nothing to show for it, to his frustration. Not one single recruit has made himself known to Jon, despite all his efforts, offers, and promises. Now enveloped in a slow-moving procession toward Aegon's High Hill, Jon walks among the smallfolk, lost in thought. His approach to recruitment perchance needs...some work. Some improvement. Yoren and Conwy and Ser Arnell succeeded for years and years while Jon's failed at every turn. _It's me_ , Jon sulks, allowing himself a long moment to see life as dourly as Dolorous Edd. The Old Bear must've been wrong about Jon, or at least very shortsighted and misguided about separating him and Ser Alliser. Why send _him_ as far away from the Wall as possible, when the Great Ranging is waiting for Jon to join it as the Lord Commander's devoted squire?

“Joffrey! All hail, all hail!”

Startled, Jon looks from the peddler trying to sell roasted rats to the commotion ahead. An entourage picks its way onto the Hook from the Muddy Way, guarded by gold cloaks armed with spears. Yanked out of his reverie, out of his brooding, Jon pushes his way through the crowd. Ahorse, the king is close, a tall stripling with blond curls and a cruel mouth, crueler than Jon remembers, but Sansa is closer. Whispering to Joffrey and white as a sheet, Sansa resembles a spooked rabbit. When the queen dares to address the mob after the wailing woman holds her dead child over her head, Jon reckons the lot would happily skin Cersei and Sansa and Joffrey and Tyrion and dump the entrails into a pot-shop for steeping, then eating.

The undercurrent of fury becomes apparent when the wailing woman screams profanities at the queen herself, quickly joined by the crowd. Near enough to grab at the reins of one of the Kingsguard if he dares, Jon ducks when a man on the roof starts throwing dung at Joffrey. _Gods be good_. Jon slips through gaps in the horde, nimble and quick as Bran once was at his climbing. The climate of the mob burns like the sun at the height of summer, even if only Tyrion seems to notice the disturbance. And Jon, but no one notices the movements of black brother on such a fraught afternoon as this one. He can't spare a moment for relief, however. Sansa's already too vulnerable, and trapped in a kettle about to boil over.

“Please, Your Grace, let him go,” Jon's sister begs, barely audible over the clamor. Jon feels his heart seize. He has to get her out of here.

"Dog, cut through them and bring—”

“Bastard!” A washerwoman yells. "Bastard monster!"

“Feed us!” Another woman shrieks from a balcony. Her lover makes obscene gestures at the king, deep in his cups well before evenfall.

A line of men strike up another call, gimlet eyed, sinister, and slender as sticks due to starvation. _"Bread!"_

“We want bread, bastard!”

 _Bastard_. Stannis Baratheon sent missives to every keep and castle in Westeros, make tongues wag about the supposed incest between Cersei and Jaime Lannister even as far as the Wall. Jon would find it a little funny if Joffrey wasn't now exposed to the anger of a band of hungry commons, with his betrothed in (unwilling) tow. Jon keeps Sansa in his sights, praying that something can be done to calm the lot around him. Careful words and deliberate action from Jon's father usually soothed the angriest of the smallfolk. Does Joffrey possess the same ingenuity as Ned Stark?

 _Absolutely not_ , Jon decides as the calm before the storm whittles down and down. A stone whistles past Joffrey's fat head.

“Bread!" The mob howls, pushing at each other and Jon like frothing sea waves. "Bread, bread!”

The mob surges, grubbing for the king and courtiers with outstretched fingers and mad rage. _A riot_ , Jon thinks, grim. _This is a riot._

The court flees at half strength, rearing atop their mounts in disarray and terror, but Jon only has eyes for Sansa. She's separated from the group by accident, clutching at the reins like she used to as a little girl. _She hates riding_. He sprints after her without a second's thought, biting his tongue so hard he tastes the blood flicking in between his teeth. Sansa and her horse are drawn apart and then—then, Jon is racing after Sansa, unsheathing Longclaw as he goes. The crowd reaches for Sansa, but Jon slices and slashes, cutting an arm off to the elbow. Gore splatters on Jon's boots and face, scaring the nearest huddle like a flock of frightened birds. He spins and attacks, smashing in someone's face with the hilt of his sword.

"Sansa!" Jon shouts, when people start to give him a wide berth. "Sansa!"

Just in time, Jon spots her with the Hound himself, now well defended again and moving away from the jam of people. Instead of fighting, looting, or roaring at the nearest highborn, the smallfolk are fleeing all around him, with two left for dead on the ground in the Hound's wake. Jon sags, lifted right out of the mindless efficiency and blind panic that overwhelmed him for several long minutes. He's missed his chance, Jon realizes, crushed. He _missed_ his _chance_. Sansa'll be back with the Lannisters in a matter of moments, with the pace the Hound sets on that borrowed mount. Sansa looks back at the sound of her name, gripping the Hound's mail like a woman lost at sea clings to a rock. Her eyes finds Jon's, and widen.

"Jon," she mouths.

He can only watch as Sansa's carted off, cursing his rotten luck.

* * *

"I feared the worst, good brother."

Lord Varys found him—by magic or mastery of skill, Jon doesn't know—near the smoking remnants of Flea Bottom. The slum caught on fire when Jon followed Sansa and the Hound all the way to the Red Keep, waiting until the pair passed through the portcullis before joining the relief efforts with the gold cloaks. They fought the flames with buckets of water from Blackwater Bay, every one painstakingly delivered from a group stationed at the Iron Gate. No one thanked Jon for the help, but that mattered little. _I shall wear no crowns and win no glory_ , Jon kept thinking, using the vows to find a rhythm when tossing water and passing buckets. Tyrion said as much to him already, offering yet another summation of what Jon missed. No one will write a song about his deeds. Better get used to it, Jon had relented. The _real_ war was hundreds of leagues away in the North.

Jon hadn't known it was Varys, initially. A plump woman with a mane of dark curls greeted him, then dropped her voice from a falsetto to the obsequiousness that the Master of Whisperers was so fond of. Jon puzzled over his new ally since their parting. Why bother with so many disguises?

"This is a dangerous city, dear boy," says Varys, drawing Jon away from the thoroughfare with a finger. Jon's confusion must've been written all over his face, because the simpering look of Varys becomes a contemplative one. "The secrets I must learn to keep my post cannot _all_ be delivered to the castle, you see. Enemies would pay more heed to the little birds in the shadows, in the chimneys, in the alleys, and the well of knowledge would dry up. My...web, of a sort, would no longer capture _any_ juicy morsels," Varys concludes, giving a girlish little laugh. It doesn't amuse Jon.

"Did you know it would happen?"

Varys blinks, owlish. "Did I know _what_ would happen, Jon?"

"The riot."

"I am no seer, only a spider. I knew as much as you did."

"The whole court went," Jon persists. From the gold cloaks, Jon learned it was to see Princess Myrcella off to Dorne. "Why not you?"

"Was the grandmaester in attendance?" Varys questions. Flea Bottom's extinguished pyre is well behind them now. Exhausted, Jon followed Varys without paying attention to their progress. "Lord Baelish? Lord Tywin? Ser Ilyn?" Varys takes Jon's lack of response as confirmation. "Moon Boy?"

Jon doesn't answer.

"I have my duties, Jon, as do the others. That is all you need know."

"Sansa was hurt, my lord," Jon bites out. Rotten luck or not, she was hurt. "You feared the worst, and it happened."

Varys frowns at him. "Your sister is safe, good brother. Lady Lollys was not so lucky. I had nothing to do with the mob, so mind your tongue."

They stop at a two story home with a turret on one side. Staring up at its leaded windows and the globe of gilded metal and scarlet glass above the door, Jon's brow furrows as understanding dawns. "This is a brothel," says Jon, flushing. No longer cross, Varys giggles, toying with his fake curls.

"Indeed. Come along."

Jon balks. "No. I swore—"

"Oh, don't be shy. Within lies a path to your sister."

Seized with rage, Jon has to wrestle it down before he does something drastic. "Speak no more of Sansa that way," Jon snaps. "She'd never—"

"I _know_ that," Lord Varys interrupts, allowing annoyance to slip through his facade. He gives a long suffering sigh, reminding Jon of Maester Luwin. It looks to be the first genuine feeling Jon has seen from him. "Lord Petyr had it right on the Starks, it seems. Quick tempers, slow minds."

Jon's rebuttal is pathetically feeble. "I'm not a Stark."

Pitying him, Varys doesn't bother dignifying that with a reply. Mortified, Jon follows Varys into the brothel without another word.

A woman in flowing silks nods at Varys, but gives Jon an amused look. "Syvra," Chataya greets, bowing. "How may I be of service to you?"

Varys has returned to the simper and breathy inflection. "Young Jon would like to be entertained. The Wall makes one _terribly_ lonely." Only the daggers Varys sends with a look prevent Jon from protesting. Some of the girls in the room burst into giggles. "Is Alayaya available, by chance?"

Chataya assents, unable to hide her smile. "She is. Allow our madam to escort you, good brother."

Jon follows Varys up the stairs like a man who awaits the gallows. As it turns out, Alayaya is just as amused as her mother. Jon's face burns. He is not doing anything with or to Alayaya. Not one thing. _I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children._ Jon can't find his voice.

"I've never met a man of the Watch before," the girl remarks, setting aside her book. "Your chastity would displease my gods, my lord."

She's beautiful, Jon can't help but notice. Then it's all he can notice. "I honor the old gods," he blurts out. _Why_ —Jon did not mean to say that! He _meant_ to tell her that her name was pretty, like Sansa suggested he do when they were children, but Alayaya never introduced herself aloud...

Varys cackles. Alayaya covers her mouth with her fingers, smiling.

"If you search my wardrobe, good brother, you may find what you're looking for," she suggests, mercifully dispensing of the japes.

For Sansa's sake, Jon prays she is not stashed in that wardrobe. He opens the door and climbs inside, pressing on a panel when he examines the inner wall with his fingers. An opening slid aside, giving Jon enough space to crawl through until he reached the rungs of a ladder. Taking a breath, Jon climbed down each rung until he hit solid ground again, this time in an earthen tunnel. Varys joined him, unruffled; Jon is drained.

"You enjoyed that, my lord," Jon accuses. Varys removes a torch from its place on the wall, smile rather sly.

"Mayhap a little. Northmen have no sense of humor, I've found." Varys beckons Jon again, the shadows doing strange things to his face. "This way."

Wearily, Jon follows.

* * *

"Careful. Step three paces to the left."

Jon obeys.

"This tunnel slopes up just ahead, good brother. You'd be wise to tread lightly."

The creaking of the lantern, the skittering of rats, the scraping of stone under Jon's boots, and the intermittent words are the only noises in the passage, the only noises between the two of them since departing Chataya's establishment. This is the longest time they've spent together since Pisswater Bend, Jon realizes, marching ever onward. They left Conwy to a poor man's burial from the innkeep, to Jon's eternal shame, but Lord Varys was adamant that night. Jon's wasted enough time already—if he wants to rescue Sansa properly, they need to act when the time was right.

"Where are we going?" Jon dares to ask, considering some kip on the ground in the tunnel. He stifles a yawn.

"Patience, Jon."

 _Listen, boy. Do as you're told_. Lord Varys has a gentler manner than the Old Bear, but it's a rebuke all the same. The stakes are just as high on this side of Castle Black, so Jon reluctantly obeys. They walk for silence for some time again, until the tips of his boots at last smack into a stair.

"Come along," says Varys.

They dart up the flight of steps, advancing into dim corridor that seems to stretch on forever. While Jon's eyes adjust to the change of darkness to light, Varys strolls along a featureless wall, running his fingers along the surface. He stops, puts pressure on the brick, and beckons Jon with a finger to approach. A panel rasps open in a flurry of dust, the sound like a crackle of old parchment. Jon draws nearer to the crevice, and looks.

Sansa's just beyond the opening. She has her back to him, but he knows it's Sansa like he knows all of his life's constants. The awareness of Ghost at his heels, the sight of Winterfell standing as it has for thousands of years, the looks of his family, save for Arya, riddled with those Tully reds, the weight of Longclaw in his hands and the feeling of the Wall's chill setting deep into his bones. Jon holds his breath, lest he shout her name in dizzy relief. As he watches, Sansa turns, moving gingerly from the vanity to her bed. A maester or maid has seen to her since the riot, Jon notes, just able to make out the gleam of a shiny salve on her cheek.

Jon considers the tunnel, the long walk, and the secret passage in Alayaya's room. "We're in the Red Keep."

"Indeed."

Jon watches Sansa again, wishing for the chance to speak to her. She curls up in her bed now, careful to lie on her side without the cut. She _saw_ him today, and in court, Jon knows. He wants to tell her that he's around, that he's closer than she may think, and that he's here to save her.

"This is as close as you should be to Lady Sansa," Varys advises. "Until all the arrangements are made, you must keep your distance."

"You're not all you appear to be, Lord Varys," Jon says, putting the Old Bear's advice to use. Everyone has their own struggles, their own wants, their own needs. As Jon contends with his desperation to help his family, surely Varys deals with such concerns himself. "What's your agenda?"

The eunuch's eyes glitter. "I serve the realm, Jon. That's all you need know." That served as the excuse to help Jon, but it isn't satisfying.

Jon holds his ground. As he left Castle Black to help Robb before his brothers intervened, he thought he was doing the right thing. Saving Sansa _is_ the right thing. Examining the motivations of his ally feels just as appropriate as all of that. "I think you did know about the riot, my lord."

Varys smiles, enigmatic. "Full marks, good brother. There may be hope for you yet." At Jon's prompting look, he continues, unperturbed. "The truth was not hard to glimpse. Tensions are high. I expected _some_ of the smallfolk to protest, but all of them? No. You must forgive my cowardice."

Shrewdness _and_ cowardice, Jon has to admit. The coin flips both ways, unlike the one or the other that is Jon's dilemma.

"Some of my people _were_ among the crowd," Varys confesses, lightly. "They saw no opportunity to remove Lady Sansa from the entourage."

Varys didn't initiate the riot, but his hands were in the pot. Jon holds his tongue. Only Sansa matters to Jon, not subterfuge and southron politics.

"What must I do now?" He asks, glancing to Sansa again. Her shoulders are shaking. She's crying, Jon realizes, hearing her faint sobs and wrestling with a foreign desire to comfort her. They were never close as children, but this is different. This is a war, and Sansa's stuck on the wrong side.

The Night's Watch takes no sides, but Jon has. Damn him, Jon has.

Varys taps a finger to his own lips, playing the simpering riddler again. "Recruit new brothers, keep your head down, and wait for my instructions."

Jon hesitates. "You'll find me?"

"In some new manner of dress, good brother. Now, come along. The descent is quite steep on our way back, and you and I have much left to do."

 _Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle_. He risks a final, guilty glance at Sansa, who seems to have fallen into a fitful sleep in her bed. Thinking back to those parting words to Arya in Winterfell last year, Jon never thought to expect to end up in the same castle as _this_ sister.

Listening to the panel slide shut behind him, Jon minds his steps and follows Varys into the gloom.

* * *

Jon spends the next morning tending to Longclaw.

His father would always seek the quiet of the godswood after killing a man, wanting to cleanse himself and Ice. While the sword was meticulously cleaned in the black pool, Lord Eddard would seek counsel and forgiveness from the old gods. To Jon's shame, he never went back to see if the man who tried to attack Sansa actually survived, whether it was deserved or not. Unlikely, with one arm cut off to the elbow and no maester in sight to staunch the bleeding. Jon elects to pray for the man's soul anyway. That man could've been eating at the Wall in a few turns of the moon.

Jon decides not to miss him, however. Better men for the Watch live in King's Landing, and it's Jon's mission to find them.

He checks on Barrow in one of the city stables, resolving to investigate Flea Bottom as well as the Keep's dungeons.

"Fancy seeing you here, Jon."

Ahorse and surrounded by the fierce Vale tribesmen, his sellsword, and his squire, Tyrion Lannister looks rather kingly.

"Lord Tyrion," says Jon, politely. With his plan with Varys still a work in progress, Jon tries to appear indifferent.

"Still lurkin' about, boy?" Bronn asks.

"Until I find my recruits." _Until I rescue Sansa_ , Jon thinks, hoping the ulterior motive isn't obvious on his face.

"Rugen asked for you," Tyrion ventures, although his attention is elsewhere and everywhere. Jon's seen him from a distance over the past (eventful) week since he arrived, riding throughout the city and checking on the progress of the smiths' chain. The smallfolk don't like him very much.

"Rugen?"

"The Red Keep's undergaoler. He oversees the black cells. I spoke to him on your behalf," Tyrion explains, looking down at Jon.

Nowhere near enough to make Jon regret deciding to steal Sansa away, the gesture is still appreciated. "Thank you, my lord."

"Podrick, escort Jon to the dungeons."

"Yes, my lord." The squire looks relieved. Stuck between from a pair of southron wildlings in a heated argument, it's a lucky break. 

Podrick dismounts and bows to Jon as if he's the Lord Commander, earning Tyrion's snort of laughter. "If you'll follow me, ser."

Leaving the group behind, Jon and Podrick start off toward the gates of the castle. "I'm not a knight," Jon tells him.

"I can't join the Watch," Podrick blurts out. Jon smiles. He _had_ planned to ask Tyrion's squire, but Jon's friend anticipated his next move.

Hopefully, Tyrion won't anticipate Jon's alliance with Varys. He has no intention of abandoning her, no matter what it costs him.

"As you say."

Jon follows Podrick, trying to banish the uncertainty that's pursued him into the keep. Servants and guards patrol the corridors, off to their duties, but Jon's black cloak seems to irresistibly draw their eyes. The last wandering crow in the Red Keep was Yoren, who met with Jon's father but hasn't returned to the Watch with his own recruits thus far. The Old Bear didn't consider Yoren lost yet, but Smallwood did, as he did of Jon's uncle.

"Here," says Pod, pointing. Jon nods in thanks, and descends the stairs when the door guards allow him the entry.

"Lord Snow," croaks Rugen, the smell of sour wine oozing from his body. It's the same disguise that met Jon in Pisswater Bend. "Good morrow."

"Lord Varys," says Jon, dryly. This trickery might've amused Arya, but it just irks Jon. "Well met."

Varys gives Jon a rotten grin, every tooth in it brown and hideous. "Well met, boy," he mimics, sardonic. "I have your effects with me."

"Effects?"

Varys deposits a bag into Jon's hands. Inside is a set of clean clothes, a hat, scissors, a pair of boots, and a long roll of silk.

"For your recruit," the eunuch hints. "The city will soon be searching for a highborn girl of fifteen, _not_ a soon-to-be man of the Night's Watch."

Jon slings the bag over his shoulder, understanding the idea at last. He nods, stiffly. It won't be easy, but it isn't impossible.

"A final matter, Jon Snow," Varys tells him, after he's outlined what Jon must do after evenfall in painstaking detail. "I must ask a favor of you."

He's wary of favors and matters, but Jon owes Varys more than he can return in this life. He has to give in. "I do so vow," says Jon.

"For the good of the realm, I am ever in pursuit of peace," the eunuch explains, less and less resembling Rugen in manner by the minute. "My counsel is not always heeded, but my goals are fair. They are not often overt, but they are true. I am always thinking of the starving children in our capital, of the dead eyed farmers in the fields, of the foot soldiers who have never held a spear in their lives before this war began." He eyes Jon, almost sorrowful. Jon doesn't know him well enough to gauge its authenticity. "Yet my place is in this castle, and I so serve its aims. _All_ its aims."

Jon mislikes the sound of that. It resembles Tyrion's own regrets on that first day, a white flag snatched away at the last moment. "Pray tell."

"The king will seek vengeance, Jon. So long as Lady Sansa is out of his grasp, Joffrey and his mother will demand her arrest."

Hostages ensure peace. To his dismay, Jon understands where Varys has drawn him now. He's vowed to...help Varys serve at his post. The pieces fall into place. Varys used so many disguises in order to ensure his own innocence later. No one in King's Landing helped Jon break his vows. He worked alone. There will be no protection from retribution that the Iron Throne deems fit to give Jon. Varys was playing his own game against him all along.

"Your men will be after her," he guesses. Doubtless, it's same people that were to kidnap her in the bedlam of the riot. "And your little birds."

"Indeed."

"And..." _I have my duties, Jon._ "They'll come after me." The oathbreaker, the crow that wandered too far, the black brother with no honor.

"The watcher on the Wall," quips Varys, spreading his hands in a gesture that doesn't suit the gruff, unkempt Rugen. "Now, you finally see."

* * *

Jon waits until the hour of ghosts to act. Varys suggested the hour of the wolf for Jon's own amusement, giggling to himself, but Jon (im)patiently refused. He and Sansa will need every scrap of time they can get. Sticking around for a significant part of the night does Jon no favors at all.

Guided by the secret passageways about the Keep, Jon settles in his position to wait. Maegor's Holdfast is guarded by a Kingsguard at the far end, but the sweetsleep slipped into his scanty dinner seems to be working; Ser Boros slumps slightly against the wall, snoring. Taking his chance, Jon darts across the drawbridge. Blount will be blamed in the morning for the drawbridge being down in the first place, as well the guards at the other end that Varys dosed. Jon pities them, knowing all three will be subject to the king's terrible rage, but Jon lets it go and circles the Holdfast. Getting inside is asking too much, so Jon must do the risky but not impossible—climb to the highest tower, and rescue Sansa. Varys forbade him from entering using the passage that let him see Sansa after the riot, arguing that Jon would compromise his own exit strategy. Instead, Jon will climb up, retrieve Sansa, and use the passageway in her chambers to meet Varys at a stable. Barrow and provisions are waiting for them.

After that, Jon has realized, he and Sansa will be on their own, with no more protection from the Spider's web.

Wishing he had Bran's old skill, Jon sucks in a breath, finds a foothold, and moves. He finds the next, and the next, and the next...

He counts the windows. Counts the row again. Varys was very precise, as was Jon, but the fear of waking the king himself flies as high as Maegor's Holdfast. He keeps going, trying not to look down. He has a noble purpose, unlike the last two men who scaled the tower and found a princess. It stirs Jon to hurry. Sansa can't be Elia Martell come again, stuck in a castle filled with enemies and so far away from her family that it was her undoing. Jon won't let that happen. He draws in another breath, narrowing his focus to the current mission. He won't think of the Old Bear, of Sam, of the dead, of Robb, of Arya, of his father, of his vows, of the Watch, of Ghost, of anyone or anything. Sansa needs him, and that is that.

Her window is open, Jon realizes, relieved and worried. He reaches the sill, gloves scrabbling for purchase on the brick. Once Jon has enough leverage, he shifts up, pushing himself through the window and...right onto the floor. "Stay back," a tremulous voice demands. "I warn— _Jon_?"

Jon raises his hands in surrender, smiling like a fool, but Sansa has already dropped the knife and flung her arms around his neck.

"Is it really you?" She asks, breathing the words into his ear. Jon just hugs her tighter, weak with joy. "I must be _dreaming_..."

"You dream of me?" He japes. Jon helps her to her feet, belatedly realizing she practically in his lap. She doesn't answer him, to Jon's relief.

"You left the Wall for—for me?" Sansa asks, gazing at him and his cloak with hope. She's nothing like that silent girl in the Great Hall.

"The Lord Commander sent me to recruit men for the Wall," Jon admits. "Then I saw you and knew I couldn't leave King's Landing without you."

To Jon's horror, Sansa's eyes well up with tears. He covers her mouth with a hand, feeling as if they are children again and playing monsters and maidens in Winterfell's crypts. Sansa never once played the beast, forever the proper lady even in a game, but Jon entertained the short-lived life of her sworn knight before Robb found their hiding place, 'captured' Jon, and made him a monster. The monsters of King's Landing, however, are nothing like Robb or Arya. "We need to go, Sansa," he urges, dropping the bag of supplies on her bed. Time is getting short.

She blinks, wipes her eyes, and Jon draws his hand back. "Go where?" She asks, mayhaps still thinking she's enjoying a happy dream. "Joffrey—"

" _Away_. Home," Jon suggests. They'll need to see every corner of the realm first, but Winterfell is Sansa's end destination. For him, it's Castle Black.

Sansa's joy is like the quick moving light of dawn. He hasn't seen that expression in more than a year—Jon's forgotten how sweet it can be.

This is his first recruit, and she doesn't even count. He doesn't mind. "Come," says Jon, as lost from his path as Pyp joked of. "We must hurry."

"My dreams always end before I'm away," she admits, fearful and desperate. "Tell me this is happening, Jon. _Please_."

"This is no dream." Neither one is out of the woods, out of danger, but this is just the beginning. "You'll see," Jon promises, and she smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind words! I really appreciate them.
> 
> This chapter won't get out of my head, so I'm posting it so I can get back to coursework. Enjoy!

Getting Sansa into her new guise is no easy thing.

"My _hair_?" Sansa repeats, clutching at the tresses with more horror than Jon thinks is strictly necessary. "Must you cut it?"

Jon brandishes the scissors. "I must."

She eyes him, holding back her permission. "Be precise. Do _not_ cut it as short as—"

He jabs a finger at her collarbone, trying to forestall an argument. "Here."

It was longer than she expected of him. She relents, looking as forlorn as Ghost when Jon left him at the Wall. " _Fine_."

"Hair grows back," Jon reminds her, starting the cutting. It is a shame, he has to admit. Sansa has beautiful hair. "And you'll get to live."

She huffs. "Like a callow boy."

" _When_ it grows back," Jon replies, impatiently, "you'll look like the Knight of Flowers." Ser Loras supposedly had hair as long as any girl.

Sansa stops complaining after that. Jon doesn't learn why until he's finished and absurdly checking if the trim is even. She's blushing. _Holding a candle for Ser Loras?_ Jon wonders, droll. He's only seen her like this around Joffrey in Winterfell; radiant next to the then prince's pouty boredom. _That day is long gone_. Their father is dead, King Robert with him, and the two of them—Sansa and Jon at least—are a bit different.

With the length of her locks now hovering midway between her collarbone and her chin, she now resembles a crimson, embarrassed mushroom.

"All done." He stuffs the cut strands of hair into the hearth, between the logs, hoping that will delay the knowledge of their deception for awhile.

Seeming to remember that she and Jon are still in danger, Sansa eases onto her feet, still in her nightgown. It's also been a long while since Jon has seen her in such a state of disarray—the older she got, the less Jon saw of her, even within the confines of Winterfell. "Now what?"

Jon digs out the clothes and the bundle of silk. "Wrap this around yourself," Jon explains, awkwardly, turning his back on her. "High...up."

Sansa obeys, dressing in the clothes that Varys gave Jon, then taps him on the shoulder when she's done. Already aware of the disguise, he just sees Sansa, but to all others, she is simply a clean looking youth and most importantly, flat as a board. The salve and bandage on her face helps the matter some—highborn ladies are so rarely injured as she was, whereas boys faced the world's nuisances. He places the cap over her ears, then lets her fiddle and fuss with it until it fits perfectly. She can pass as a stableboy, if Jon is being generous.

It's nearing the hour of the owl, he estimates. Getting as far as possible from King's Landing before dawn is the objective.

Sansa grabs just one of her belongings to bring with her and unceremoniously crams it into Jon's bag, looking furtive. "What's that?"

She won't meet his eyes. "Father gave it to me."

He drops the subject and points to the far wall, measuring the spot from his place at her vanity. "This way." The wall is featureless like its other face, save for a single dragon tile near his feet, likely designed by the Keep's erstwhile builders to go unnoticed. He pulls out the slab, hearing the quiet grumble of gears and stone ahead. Sansa gasps as a part of her wall sweeps suddenly outward, forming a doorway out of smooth red rock.

"Come," says Jon, and she follows. Once Jon and Sansa are in the passageway, he puts his weight on the door, pushing it right back into place.

"That was here the entire time?" She asks, alarmed.

"Thank Maegor." He was one of the interesting of the Targaryen kings. Maester Luwin must've grown weary of recounting the tales to Robb and Jon.

In no time at all, the two of them find the stable. Sansa is Jon's shadow by the time Lord Varys arrives, now garbed in a thick cowl.

"Thank you, my lord," says Jon, voice as chilly as hoarfrost. Trusting Varys after knowing the spymaster's blatant intent to pursue them on behalf of the Iron Throne leaves a bad taste in Jon's mouth. The distance between northmen and southroners feels wider than ever. He curls his fingers into a step so Sansa can climb onto the horse. Jon gives her a look when she tries to sit sidesaddle, prompting her scowl. "I am forever in your debt."

Varys offers an unctuous smile. "I am grievous sad to see you go, Jon. Our next meeting marks us as enemies."

Ignoring the sally, Jon settles behind Sansa and grabs the reins. It's a cramped fit, but it'll do. "Farewell, my lord. May we _never_ meet again."

With a press of his heels and Sansa in tow, Jon guides Barrow out of the stable and into the darkness.

* * *

They're riding for only a few minutes when it dawns on him, slow and horrifying and dreadfully not funny whatsoever.

Jon doesn't know _where_ to go.

His panic isn't noticed by Sansa, but Jon doubts he'll be able to keep it from her for long. This was Jon's brilliant idea, the very idea that slipped _her_ into his thoughts like an arrow wedged in a gap in chainmail, one that just can't be pried out—shouldn't he have thought this far ahead already? Shouldn't he have thought _beyond_ the Red Keep and Varys and Tyrion and the damn riot and his sister stuck in a castle that hated her?

He hasn't. He just kept thinking of Sansa, Sansa and Arya. _Arya_ , Jon agonizes, and dares to broach the subject with Sansa.

"Where's Arya?" Jon ventures, asking the question that he put off for days. _Missing_ , Tyrion said.

Jon feels her stiffen. Neither one is willing to feign ignorance over which sister he's always favored.

"I don't know," Sansa mumbles, head bowed, and Jon falls silent.

The new length of her hair offers a glimpse of the back of her neck to Jon, reminding him unpleasantly of that deserter from the Wall. That can be _him_ if they get caught. That can be him if they _don't_ get caught. He filched a lady of a Great House from right out under the king's nose instead of following the Lord Commander's orders to recruit men from King's Landing (and convince the Iron Throne of an old threat). Jon's already a man grown, with a seventeenth nameday well past. The only punishment available _is_ death, and Jon doubts a northman—or even Robb—would get the privilege of beheading him. Worse, Jon decides. He'd just hang. _Crow cages are rare_ , Jon reflects, uneasy, _despite the terrific irony it'd make..._

He edges Barrow a little faster. In the dark, they've wandered aimlessly, seeking to put as much distance between the passageway and themselves as possible. Now however, Jon can make out the distant rise of the Mud Gate. He and Conwy entered the Iron Gate via the Rosby road upon arrival, joining the endless line of refugees seeking the protection of the capital. Few want to leave, in spite of the shortages. Jon and Sansa are going...south, he realizes. The kingsroad will draw them into the kingswood, and if continued on, will draw them all the way to Storm's End.

 _Storm's End_ , Jon muses, absently. _Will King Renly be holding court?_

Sansa stirs. "Jon," she says, suddenly, half turning in the saddle to warn him. "There's a curfew."

"What?"

"A _curfew_. The small council arranged it with Lord Tyrion, I heard. It's..." She sounds anxious, anxious as she did when the mob surrounded the royal retinue like sharks with the smell of blood in the water. "It's...death to be caught outside after—after dark."

He has no reason to question her. Joffrey's puppeteers have the city well in hand. He eases Barrow down to a walk, and dismounts.

"What are you _doing_?" Sansa hisses, as Jon guides Barrow along, reins in hand. Had Sansa not been astride the horse and dressed as a boy, the scene would be familiar in Winterfell. Hullen and Harwin kept a close eye on any riders in the yard, especially Jon's little sisters.

Not so little anymore, Jon observes. She has fifteen namedays to Jon's seventeen.

"If we run into the gold cloaks, I need to be on my feet." The gate is likely manned, eager to bar entry to the quarrelsome Baratheon brothers. Inspiration strikes him just as the portcullis lifts into his line of sight, along with a line of trebuchets set beside the battlements in Fishmonger's Square. Jon squints, spotting a sentry at the top of the southeast wall and another on the ground. It's _him_ Jon has to convince. Convince, not kill—if Jon doesn't get past the one at the bottom, there's little chance of getting to the man at the top without being discovered.

"Halt!"

Jon stops the horse and waits for the guard to approach. He forces serenity where none can be found, determined to get them both out of this alive. Sansa has gone very still on Barrow, as if anyone who looks upon her will mistake her frozen form for nothing at all. _If only that were so._

"You know the rules, boy," the guard snaps, one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other clutching a torch. "No one goes out after dark." Jon doesn't have a measure of how well this one fights, but his armor is too big for him and his sword isn't castle forged steel. Jon can fight him off if it comes to that, but what of the one atop the city wall? And the rest, inevitably patrolling King's Landing? Sansa warned him already—they were lucky to get this far without the intervention of Lord Varys, unnoticed and unheard.

"I'm returning to the Wall with a poacher, ser," Jon tells him, all business. "Open your gate."

" _No one_ leaves at night, I told you. Orders from the king himself."

His patience tumbles down much faster than he would've liked, but brutes like this one often need a sharp lesson. Rast learned that much at the Wall. "The Night's Watch takes no part in the realm's wars, ser," Jon reminds him. " _I ask you again_. Open your gate _now_ , or I turn around, go to straight to the king, and tell him the story of the dolt that slowed me down on my way back to the Wall." When the guard wavers, Jon continues, pressing his advantage as if they were sparring in the yard at Castle Black. "What will he do to you when he wakes?" Jon asks, hearing Sansa's gasp from atop Barrow. "Cut out your tongue? He likes to do that, I've heard." Singers were reduced to beggars on the streets, but they still refused Jon once they saw him coming. The guard gulps, but Jon keeps going. "If he doesn't string you up, he'll just send you to the Wall with me."

 _This is a bluff._ A big one. He frowns at the guard, trying to put some of his father's steely cold into his stare. Jon would rather string himself up than beg Joffrey Baratheon for _anything_. Jon would rather run this guard through with a sword than go to this king on his knees.

The guard waves his torch in a high arc, sweat forming on his brow. "Open the gate!" He bellows, voice cracking like a little lad's. "Open the gate for the crow!"

Jon climbs back onto Barrow, accepts the reins from a stricken Sansa, and nudges Barrow below the rising portcullis of the Mud Gate.

* * *

Sansa waits for an entire league to pass before ripping into Jon.

"Are you _mad_?" She demands, half twisting in the saddle to glare at him.

"Not that I noticed."

"'Go straight to the king'?" She repeats, gaining anger as fear falls away. "Joffrey would know me immediately!"

"I wasn't _going_ to go to Joffrey," Jon retorts, cross. "It was a bluff."

She scoffs. It's almost a relief to go back to—to an approximation of what Jon's always known. Sansa was never unnecessarily cruel, just distant. She was heard to say that she pitied Jon for being a bastard, but outright malice was beneath her (conflicts with Arya notwithstanding). Anger is something easily dealt with, but an overwhelming impulse to soothe her when she cried is not. "You're lucky that didn't happen, Jon," she snaps.

"We both are."

"I _know_ ," she fumes, putting her back to him.

Sharing a horse won't let her storm off, but Jon imagines she wishes she could anyway. Or slap him. They lapse into silence, to Jon's relief and petty satisfaction. There's no telling who or what awaits them on the kingsroad—he needs his wits about him.

It falls to Jon to keep them going. The moon is bright enough to light their way, but forcing Barrow to walk night and day won't get them very far. If an inn doesn't appear in the next hour or two, Jon will set up a kip in the kingswood. Sansa will hate it, Jon knows, tiredness nipping at his eyes like Ghost with Jon's fingers, but that was unavoidable at this point.

When Blackwater Rush emerges from a gap in the barrels and stalls in the market outside the city, Jon almost drops right out of the saddle.

"Did you forget about the river?" Sansa asks, not bothering to look at him. She sounds snide, making Jon scowl at the back of her head.

" _Yes_."

He can't see her face, but Jon imagines a pleased look sitting on it, like she's won something, and sighs, admitting defeat.

"There's a ferry," she tells him, apparently deigning to be generous now, "with a flat bottom. We can cross it and get to the kingswood."

Jon should've considered Sansa's knowledge of the area at least a _a little_ , but his pride only extends so far.

"Have you been there before?"

It's the wrong thing to say. Spine ramrod getting straight against Jon's chest, it is a few moments before Sansa answers. "Just once, with Joffrey."

Chagrined, Jon drops the subject. Barrow's pace is slowing down, Jon notices, but the three of them arrive at the river's edge soon enough. The barges—all tied to posts along the northmost banks and idling in the current—are narrow and curled at each end, both prow and stern pointing at the night sky. Between Sansa, himself, Barrow, and his saddlebags, the weight may not hold. When he catches Sansa glancing behind them with fear in her eyes, Jon opts for the risk. Both of them can swim if the ferry capsizes, although Jon may be forced to bid his horse farewell if that happens.

Jon stoops to untie a barge from its pole, the gloves making his fingers clumsy. "Keep Barrow calm," he orders of Sansa, handing off the reins to her. Barrow is normally a sedate fellow, but all it takes is one spooked horse to ruin a delicate maneuver. Nudging Barrow onto the wooden slats, Jon finds the oar while Sansa puts a soothing hand on Barrow's neck, stroking his mane as a nervous whicker reaches their ears. Heaving the oar over his head, Jon thrusts it into the water.

The Rush is strong, stronger than the White Knife thanks to its proximity to the mouth of the river and its ingress into Blackwater Bay. Jon holds on, a cold sweat forming on his brow. The wood creaks noisily under his feet, Barrow's tail flicks about like flutter of an insect's angry wings, and Sansa's whispers to the horse take on a high pitched swing, but Jon keeps at it. This oar is the only thing keeping them from getting swept out into Blackwater Bay, so it's slow going. Every new push edges them dangerously east. Straining against the weight, Jon dunks the oar below the water and stabs it into the riverbed. _Dunk and stab, dunk and stab, dunk and stab..._

Jon keeps his breath even, arms and back aching, until the barge is at last idling along the opposite bank. Jon jumps down, the water meeting him up to his knees. "Hurry," Jon manages as the river laps at his trousers, holding the barge still so Sansa can climb off and coax Barrow onto the shore. Jon follows her, leaving the barge to be swept away in the current. With any luck, all remnants of their scent will be lost. Joffrey undoubtedly has bloodhounds, _the_ Hound, a cadre of skilled hunters, and an endless retinue of knights. Any advantage Jon and Sansa can get, they _must_ take.

"After you," says Jon, interlacing his fingers to make a step for her boots. Sansa puts one hand on his shoulder for leverage like the lady she always has been, but she turns her eyes to him first, gaze very solemn.

"Thank you, Jon," Sansa tells him, all traces of anger and pique gone. There are no tears, either, at least not yet. "I had to say it, just in case."

Jon has touched and spent more time alone with Sansa more in the past day than he has in his entire life—what's one more time? He covers her hand with his, stroking his thumb along the back of her bare hand. "Of course," Jon answers, finding it all too easy to set aside their petty squabbling. Father always says—always _said_ , Jon corrects himself, feeling his heart sting and smart, that winter was the right time to do that. Bickering when they should be standing together, when they're in trouble, isn't going to help anyone survive. Jon has bigger problems waiting for him at the Wall; the wildlings for one, the Others for another. He has the Great Ranging to start. He has the Lord Commander to impress. He can't linger on real or imagined tiffs with his sister when the stakes are taller than even the Hightower. "I couldn't leave you with him," Jon repeats, hating the thought as strongly as he did when the war began. Dareon sang 'Brave Danny Flint' at dinner before Jon fled, but instead of envisioning a nameless girl dressed as a boy, all Jon could see was interposed amalgamations of Sansa and Arya, surrounded by hungry-eyed men in white cloaks instead of black ones.

Sansa gives him a tremulous smile. "I thought I'd never leave. I-I thought...we were to marry, remember?"

Jon gives her hand a bracing squeeze, then lets go of her to make the step up again. Sansa climbs astride Barrow. Jon follows, accepting the reins when she offers them.

"I remember," he answers, after they're loping down the path again. Shrouded in darkness, the kingswood is dead ahead. "You were so...happy."

"I didn't know what he was like." She sounds defensive.

How could Sansa know that Joffrey had another face all along? Much like Eddard Stark, Joffrey wore one and stowed the other away, only the face underneath was the real one. Jon and Robb disliked him and all his haughty behavior in the yard at Winterfell, but the real face—the true character—was hidden. While their father could remove lord's look and be the man they and the North loved so dearly, Joffrey's cruelty eroded the other clean through. "No one did."

Sansa shivers. "Now everyone _does_ , and they still fight for him. I don't—I don't _understand_."

Jon felt the same at the Wall, when the wool was finally pulled from his eyes, when the fantasy shattered to bits like falling icicles. "Nor I."

Her sad sigh makes his heart sting and smart all over again. "In life, the monsters win."

"We'll see," Jon tells her, and over the reins, she squeezes his hands.

* * *

It's the hour of the nightingale when he finally gives Barrow a well deserved break. _Poor beast_. Jon lowers Sansa to her feet, secures Barrow, and then starts digging around the clearing for firewood. Sansa lingers near Barrow, stroking a hand up and down his neck, seemingly unsure of what to do now.

"Go to the left saddlebag," Jon says, swallowing a yawn behind his hand. "Fetch me the flint."

"Flint?"

"Two rocks."

Sansa passes them over, watching him like a curious snow shrike in the wolfswood. Jon sets to his task as Sansa settles across from him on a rock, features swathed in moonlight. She still sits like a lady, despite the haircut, the cap, and the fresh clothes from Varys—she smooths down creases of a dress that she isn't wearing, and folds her hands atop her knees, posture perfect. _I'll need to speak to her about that_. In the meantime, Jon arranges the logs and starts smacking the pieces of flint together, until the sparks plummet onto the wood. Jon cups his hands and leans down to blow a bit of air on the heap, trying to get the flames to catch. After a few moments, he succeeds.

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"Gariss." He was the best huntsman in Winterfell. Harwin always japed that Gariss could find snarks in the sticks.

They edge nearer to the fire, cloaks huddled high on their shoulders. It's barely autumn, but the Stark words are never far from Jon's mind.

"Where are we going?"

The question startles him, despite the pragmatism of it.

He stares at the flames for a long while, fighting exhaustion. The kingswood is still and quiet as the morning approaches, but Jon doesn't remember the last time he slept. All that matters is getting to the next moment, and the next, and the next, all of which with Sansa's safety in mind. Her question disrupts the sequence, so it takes all of Jon's focus to muster up an answer. Where _are_ they going, besides an inscrutable 'away'—an away with endless possibilities and no destination in sight—from King's Landing? He has his duties to fill, he has his sister to save. The world balances on the blade of a sword, but it keeps leaning toward one particular side, inevitably, irrevocably. How can Jon pick between the Wall and Sansa, without seeing the latter through? She can't be alone in the south, so far from home, and Jon refuses to leave her.

 _Love is the bane of honor_ , Maester Aemon once told an indifferent Jon, _the death of duty_. Another man he should've heeded.

Inspiration sparks like his middling fire, painting the coming days in a hopeful glow. He thinks of the Old Bear. _We need the men._

"Storm's End," Jon answers. He has an idea, but it's as tiny and new as their fire. He was sent to ask for help from the king on the Iron Throne, but at the moment there's more claimants than the realm knows what to do with. He has five options to consider, five wildly different men to beg for aid against the wildlings and the Others. He isn't _disobeying_ an order, exactly. He's just being...thorough, even anticipating needs, as is a squire's wont. He ought to ask lesser lords while he's at it—there has to be men in castle dungeons that are all but forgotten when peace is so elusive. "We're going to see King Renly. Will you join me?"

Sansa's eyes bore into Jon's. He guesses she must have questions. He'll answer any to stay awake. Questions are easier than planning for the future.

"Yes, Jon," she tells him, giving him a smile. It isn't radiant, like the ones she used to give Joffrey, but it's plenty warm for him. "I'll join you."

* * *

They make camp for a few hours, digging into what's left of his supplies. Jon cooks up oats and stale bread for them to share, with Arbor wine from a skin to wash it down. He has an entire bag of coin, but it's hard to say how long it will last them. Jon's already extended his stay in the south indefinitely, for better or worse. _The Night's Watch is not proud, we take what is offered_ , Mormont told him, meaning the asking for relief from various lords rather than pleading for his sister's benefit. It's enough for Jon, but it's hard to see Sansa adjusting well to life on the road. They'll be begging soon, if Renly and his men are not hospitable.

His blind wandering on and off the kingsroad the night before put them near the source of the Wendwater. Or, at least, Jon _thinks_ so. He isn't sure, doesn't know for certain, and the answer is only obtainable if they press on, always on. He didn't pay near enough attention to his lessons of geography so far south with Maester Luwin when the stories about the Young Dragon were more interesting.

"You should rest, Jon," she chides, when Jon's head dips to his chest for a third time and puts a crick in his neck.

He's sharpening Longclaw with a whetsone, but the metal is scraping louder and slower than usual thanks to Jon's distraction. He shakes his head.

"Not yet."

"All watchmen need sleep," Sansa insists, still managing to look prissy in her new skin. "Just for a little while."

He stows the whetstone away, slips Longclaw back into its sheath, and clambers unsteadily onto his feet. He wants to get some more distance between them and the capital, while it's still light out. The last thing they need is for Barrow to twist an ankle and be put out of his misery. "Later."

Features creased in annoyance, Sansa concedes defeat and starts to help him pack up. She's amenable to pitching in once he explains exactly what he's doing and why, needing no further prompting to understand that their efficiency is the only thing keeping them alive. Jon doubts they'll be chased by the Kingsguard with Renly and Stannis likely eyeing King's Landing and intending its capture in the coming months, but there's a precedent of employing one knight while the rest close ranks around Joffrey. Ser Arthur Dayne lived among the smallfolk in this very forest to discover where the Kingswood Brotherhood was hiding, all at the behest of the Mad King. Jon shudders to think of himself and Sansa being chased down by the likes of Ser Meryn and Ser Boros. Jon can knock around his sworn brothers, but two knights? It isn't a guaranteed victory, like Jon facing down...Sam, for example.

He wonders what Sam would think of him doing this. Like the plans for the future, Jon doesn't know. The only way to find out is...to press on.

Finally ready to go, Jon guides Barrow into the river, grateful that it's shallow, only reaching up to Barrow's ankles.

"What are you doing?" Sansa peers at their dangling feet and twists back to look at Jon, puzzled.

"Hiding our scent," Jon explains, intending to keep Barrow in the water until it's nearly time to stop again. They ought to stay close to the river, anyway, so they can drink and wash from it whenever needed. A sennight of drinking dwindling wine won't do them any favors. He only hopes Barrow doesn't throw a shoe. There isn't a smith nearby, not for a few leagues.

Sansa hasn't seemed nervous since the Mud Gate, but the feeling returns with a vengeance, making her shoulders hunch together, ever so slightly. Jon reads what he can from the back of her head and the barest slump of her posture, extrapolating the rest from Sansa herself.

"He'll find us." He hears a hitch in her breath and gets himself saddled with that serpentine, senseless desire to comfort her. It settles low and coiling in his gut, while Jon tries to think up the right thing to say. Talking to girls is difficult.

"Not on my watch," Jon disagrees.

"You're falling asleep, Jon," Sansa grumbles, worry dropping to petulance. "I'll be gone before you wake."

That's what he has to do, if he wants the journey to go smoothly—distract Sansa. "I'll get you back," he insists, nudging Barrow with his heels when the horse lingers near a low hanging tree. _Go on, you old beast_ , Jon thinks. As if Barrow can hear Jon, the horse obeys, snuffing irritably.

"Are you any good?" Sansa asks him, sounding doubtful.

"Yes!" Jon answers, stung. He was a match for Robb's own skill, everybody said so. "You saw me in the yard."

She demurs. "Sometimes."

He doesn't clue in to the game until he catches a glimpse of her smile in the dimming light of dusk.

"You're japing."

"Mayhap a little..." She twists to look at him again, peering at him from below the brim of her cap. "You're so serious now. You're...different."

" _You're_ different." He's retaliating, inclined to parry a strike when he sees one, but she really has changed. Sansa had nothing to fear in Winterfell, nothing to doubt. Jon has seen her spooked by shadows, by men, and doubting his ideas as well as her own, unless she was feeling particularly stubborn. The fact that he even managed to convince her to flee with him, dressed as a boy, speaks volumes. Not everything has changed, Jon knows. She still tries to please others—Joffrey, the mob, even Jon—and puts all her efforts into learning. She's still Sansa. Still a Stark, in every way the others are and Jon isn't.

"Thank Joffrey."

He has to give her that one. Without Joffrey, Arya would still be...with them. Their father would still be alive. Robb wouldn't be a king.

The dead would still walk, however. Jon knows this for a fact, feels it deep in his bones. "I'd rather kill him," he admits. That'd only make him Jon Snow the Kingslayer after all, but at least Joffrey wouldn't get back up again. He'd be dead on the wrong side of the Wall, and the realm would be a bit better off.

"I rather you did, too," she whispers, as if the woods contain little birds that answer to a single spider, one eager to deliver a prize to its master.

When it's well after dark and Barrow is ambling, Sansa demands a rest.

"If not for you, for me," she insists, standing her ground. "I hate riding and I'm _exhausted_."

Jon gets a small fire going and is unrolling his bedroll on the ground when dread dawns on him again. He only has the one bedroll.

Sansa, to Jon's astonishment, downplays the predicament.

"Arya and I used to share all the time," she explains, trying to brew a tea after Jon showed her what to do. The nettles don't look appetizing, but Jon doesn't have the heart to say so. The pink on her face betrays her, though; it's a strange situation for both of them, no matter which way you spin it. Jon shared a bed and furs with his brothers, not his sisters. Nevertheless, Sansa is doing only what she has been taught—accommodate and appease, whatever the circumstances. "If it bothers you, we can take turns." When Jon means to protest, Sansa glares at him over the fire, unmoved and imperious. "We're taking turns, Jon! _Be quiet_. And you're going first."

Defeated, Jon nods, puts Longclaw on the ground next to him, lies down, and makes a reluctant attempt to relax. It's a lot harder than he expects to submit to sleep, even if it's pulling at him so hard that he can barely keep his eyes open. Vigilance will keep them out of the king's clutches, but Jon is only one man. Had Ghost joined him on the mission, being so vulnerable would not be an issue.

Sansa sits down next to Jon, settling so she's within arm's reach if he presumably needs to help her. "I'm right here," she promises, one knee inching near his left shoulder. She must be tired as he is—she's forgone her ladylike perch in favor of the cross-legged sit, which is in all likelihood a lot more comfortable for her. "Sleep, please," Sansa requests, patting his arm. Jon reckons they'll shift from joy and companionable cooperation to annoyance and badgering like the direwolves at play, but the contrast is still something to get used to. He was overwhelmed with relief to get to her rooms unscathed, but just as irked when they bickered on the road. "I'll be right here."

Loath to argue again, Jon obeys, and shuts his eyes.

* * *

"Jon."

Groggy and unsteady on his feet, he gets up. It's lighter outside than Jon likes—she waited much too long to wake him up. King's Landing is a good stretch away, but caution and speed will do nothing but save them. With any luck, they'll cross into the invisible and unremarkable border of the Stormlands, where another king claims jurisdiction. Let Joffrey hold his Red Keep like a turtle in a shell—Jon and Sansa will be out of reach in another day. "Time to go," he mutters. Sansa goes along without protest, coaxing Barrow with absentminded clicks of her tongue and a gentle touch. Jon helps her up, then joins her after ensuring all saddlebags are packed and secured. She's already a better traveling companion than Conwy, Jon has to admit. His black brother hardly ever talked, making the journey lonely. Sansa does nothing _but_ talk when the mood strikes her.

"Did you see anyone after us?" Jon asks, thinking the worst when he slept unawares, with only Barrow to keep Sansa company.

"No," she replies, failing to hide a yawn. He won't be surprised if she falls asleep on the ride. He resolves to keep a close eye on her. "Not a soul..."

Varys professed a plan to try and retrieve Sansa, but Jon never mentioned where he was headed. Jon hopes the lot tries for Winterfell, as if returning Sansa to her home is the immediate goal. Their supposed pursuers will get cut down and bled in the Neck by the crannogmen.

This ride is shorter than the last handful, due to Jon's own curiosity than need for rest. They come upon a few daub-and-whattle huts in the wood, catching the eyes of curious smallfolk. Jon dismounts to make them look less like a threat—paltry as it may seem—and speak with a farmer. Jon trades coppers for bread despite the fellow's extension of guest right and hospitality. Grateful, the man inquires into where they're going.

"To Lord Renly," Jon answers, playing it safe and handing a piece of bread to Sansa. Titles give your thoughts away. "I seek men for the Wall."

"Just the one so far, crow?" The farmer asks, giving Sansa a mirthful glance. "Poor lad."

"This boy poached in the king's own land," Jon explains, as Sansa, under their scrutiny, tries to look like what she thinks a poacher is. She ends up with a scowl and cagey eyes, to Jon's amusement. Playacting ladies is easier than criminals. He shifts the conversation back to where it began. "Has Lord Renly marched on King's Landing yet?"

The farmer shakes his head, pouring tea for the both of them. "No, m'lord. Gone to Bitterbridge, he has. Me cousin heard talk of a melee."

The melee isn't the part that gets Jon's attention. "He's left the Stormlands?"

"Aye. M'lord's been circling the Reach," the farmer—Baldric—explains, easing into a roughhewn chair. From the corner of his eye, Jon sees Sansa inspecting the hut, frank interest in her gaze. Jon doubts she's ever been in a place like this, even when she went south on the kingsroad with Father. "Gathering a host," Baldric adds. "Arlan, the crofter in the far wood? He reckons m'lord Renly will march on the capital in a moon's turn."

That's more than enough time to reach him, Jon guesses. "He's west?"

Baldric nods, using nails and pebbles to signify the kingswood, Fawnton, the Grassy Vale, the Blueburn, and Bitterbridge. He's far more helpful than the smallfolk of King's Landing, though Jon thinks that has something to do with the dislike of the Wall. "Go that way through the forest, see, and you'll find the kingsroad soon enough." The host will show itself in piecemeal at first, with scouts and outriders at its furthest edges. Jon has to get to the middle.

"Thank you," says Jon, and then he and Sansa are on their way.

* * *

Sansa elects to ride behind Jon this time. Jon sits up as she winds tentative arms around his waist, unused to the feeling. No woman's touched Jon like this before, not even to dance.

"You know how to speak to the commons," she tells him as Barrow picks his way through the wood. She sounds sleepy, and younger.

 _I'm half of one_ , Jon wants to say, but picking a fight when her defenses are down seems unkind. Better to wait until she can fling something back at him, crafted so neatly that his head will spin. "They teach you that at the Watch."

"Do they?"

He laughs, surprised she fell for that. "No."

Sansa mutters something incomprehensible, but changes the subject. "What would Lord Renly want in Bitterbridge?" She wonders.

"Support from the Reach," Jon supposes, thinking of Baldric's words. It's like the North converging on Winterfell. It makes sense, if you replace Highgarden with Bitterbridge. Renly may have already entertained his new lords there, Jon muses. "They all have to meet somewhere."

"Will you petition him?" Sansa asks. He feels a press against one shoulder. Her cheek, he realizes, flushing as her hair tickles the nape of his neck.

"I will."

"You won't like him," Sansa murmurs, her breath raising gooseflesh on Jon's skin. "He's very gallant. Charming. Nothing like you, Jon Snow."

He laughs again, slowing Barrow down to a walk. They have the time. "Sleep, Sansa," Jon advises. "Dream of happy things. I'll be right here."

She doesn't answer, doesn't move, doesn't argue, all save for a kiss that's pressed to Jon's exposed neck, its touch as sweet as Arbor gold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Jon and Sansa bickering is fun. Hopefully this chapter is enjoyed!

Marching through the kingswood as quickly as Barrow allows, Jon gazes at what he can see of the sky with apprehension.

There's a storm racing across the heavens, further calling attention to just which region he and Sansa fled into. _We had no other options_. Staking out in any other direction would've meant capture, Jon knows, thinking back to all he's seen and overheard since he left the Wall. Going east on a ship would mean an inevitable kidnapping by the men of Stannis Baratheon's fleet, some of them rumored to be pirates from the Stepstones; going north or west on the kingsroad would mean an abduction by the Lannisters or the Tyrells.

Jon hears Sansa's abrupt return to awareness as the mist becomes a deluge, submerging both of them in a torrent of water.

"Oh," Sansa gasps.

"Sorry," says Jon, anticipating an argument. Traipsing through the elements is no longer a novelty to him after a fortnight's journey from the Wall to King's Landing with Conwy, and before that, north with Uncle Benjen, Tyrion, and the involuntary recruits to the Watch. Sansa, Jon knows, has always been tucked away in wheelhouses and litters since joining Robert and Joffrey's courts. He wonders if Joffrey even rides anymore.

Thunder booms above them, loud as a thousand drums. He winces. They'll need to seek shelter soon. With the rain comes the chill, enough for Jon to feel it. Unlike the North's bitter frost, where northmen layer in fur and leather and meet endless snowfall with grim acceptance, this weather is brisk and wet, making raindrops cling to Jon's skin as it sneaks into gaps in his clothes. Their cloaks won't freeze and stiffen up—Jon only foresees smelly wool and damp fabric, which is reason enough to feel uncomfortable.

"We should stop, Jon," Sansa urges, teeth chattering, and Jon can't find it in him to disagree. They're at the outskirts of the kingswood already, with Fawnton less than half a day's ride away, so Jon counts them safe enough. He hasn't seen neither hide nor hair of the Kingsguard, or the nameless agents of Lord Varys, making Jon wonder if they're just biding their time or Jon and Sansa have eluded them altogether.

Spying a break in the trees, Jon dismounts near an outcropping of rock, helps Sansa down, and sets Barrow near the mouth of a cave. They must be nearer to Felwood than Jon thought, where the kingswood meets the footholds of the Red Mountains in Dorne. Bidding Sansa to wait, Jon stows their saddlebags at the entrance and out of the rain, then searches the cave. There's nothing waiting for them in the dark, Jon finds, save for more rocks. "Come in," Jon calls, and listens to Sansa make her way carefully into the gloom. "Watch out for the grumkins..."

"Shut up," comes Sansa's answer, and Jon smiles. She finds him in the dark by a halting, uncertain touch, and he takes her hand to guide her further in and away from the entrance. They slouch down and sit along the cave wall, grit and earth crunching underfoot.

"Can we start a fire?" She asks, her voice coming from his left. In the dark, Jon can only make out her silhouette.

"No," Jon admits, actually sorry this time. The wood's too wet and setting old leaves alight is a only a stopgap. "We'll wait out the storm."

They fall silent. When Jon feels her shivering, he peels off his gloves and covers her hand with his, trying to warm her. Her fingers curl into his palm, exploring, and trace the scars from the fire in the Old Bear's rooms. It's Jon's turn to squirm, struggling to keep up with every new intimacy. Even as a boy, Jon can't recall ever being in such close proximity to Sansa before. "What's this?" She asks, fingertips pressing into his skin.

"Burns."

"From Winterfell?"

"The Wall," Jon answers. "I was protecting the Lord Commander."

"From the Others?" Sansa questions. He searches her voice and the dark for any sign of mockery, but there's none whatsoever. Sansa only seems...curious, maybe daunted, as if Jon's offered a diverting anecdote for her consideration instead of proof of a long lost horror.

Othor's sightless eyes haunt his dreams even now. "One of them."

"You brought a piece to Lord Tyrion." She sounds thoughtful. "I didn't get to see it." Jon blocked the entire court from seeing it, likely against his own interests. He should have shown it. Perhaps pressure from the court would've prompted a less than lukewarm response from Tyrion.

Jon hesitates. "I can show you, if you won't be frightened." Arya and the boys loved the tales that bespoke of all that laid beyond the Wall and men like the Mad Axe, but Sansa always pleaded for stories of Symeon Star-Eyes and Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. Old Nan compromised with stories she knew of the Targaryens, infusing courtly romance with the bloodier adventures of the Blackfyres.

"Joffrey frightens me. This won't."

 _I've never heard that before_ , Jon realizes. He's heard Sansa petulant, he's heard her polite, he's heard her sweet, kind, or even aloof, but never _this_. Never so...resolute. What happened to that refined little girl who left through Winterfell's gates for King's Landing without a backwards glance?

 _This is the Long Night come again_ , Jon wants to tell this new thing that bears a trifling resemblance to Sansa. _You should be scared_.

There's little reason to argue with such blithe confidence—or foolishness—so Jon fetches the bag and fishes out the jar. He sets it in her hands and watches the silhouette lift the jar to the dim light coming from the entrance. Othor's hand scrabbles as it always does, scratching uselessly against the glass. Sansa draws in a breath, wordlessly returns the jar to Jon, and takes his hands again when he stows the jar away and settles back down alongside her against the wall. He wonders what's going on in her mind. He wonders what Arya would think of it.

"They're _real_." Disbelief wars with what the eyes have seen as reason fails to overcome reality. Jon understands that feeling all too well.

"They are."

She squeezes his hands, so suddenly that Jon nearly jumps. "And here I thought you'd be fighting the wildlings."

"I will be, I think," Jon admits. One does not join the Watch and expect otherwise. "We're going on a ranging bigger than there's ever been when I get back to the Wall." _If they haven't left without me already_. Patience isn't the Old Bear's forte. Jon doubts they will linger long, if at all, for the presence of a single squire and steward. Uncle Benjen taught Jon that. _On the Wall, a man gets only what he earns._ Jon has to earn his place with the Old Bear. If that means scouring brothels and dungeons for men and mining the growing supply of kings for arms and fodder, he'll do it.

And he'll bring Sansa home, where she belongs.

When Sansa's arms wind around Jon suddenly, he barrels past surprise and soars into sheer shock.

"You be careful," she tells him, lips at his ear and wet cheek pressed to his own, startling him again. "Robb'll never forgive you if you die."

 _Not you?_ "Not Arya?" Jon manages, fruitlessly searching for a memory of Sansa _hugging_ him before. None jump to mind. He curls his arms around her waist, half expecting her to let go of him quickly. Lady Stark and Septa Mordane frowned in disapproval whenever Jon obliged Sansa's demands to dance (when all available partners were otherwise engaged), and seemed to frown more when he danced so poorly next to Sansa herself. Sansa never seemed to mind, even if Robb teased them from the other side of the hall, unable to get Arya accommodate her own left feet, even if Jeyne Poole's skeptical smiles joined Beth Cassel's from the benches. _It's just practice_ , Sansa would always assure him, graciously ignoring Jon's feet stepping on her own...to a point. _Dancing felt appropriate_ , Jon decides, a strange little flush settling onto his skin. _This doesn't_.

"Arya would be _with_ you," Sansa points out, and a laugh bursts out of Jon's chest at the absurdity of it. Sansa giggles.

"She would," Jon agrees, thinking of his fierce little sister. "She'd stow away in the baggage train, I reckon."

"She could be in Winterfell right now," says Sansa, wistful.

Jon doesn't have the heart to tell her the truth.

She draws back an inch, half in his lap. Jon stays very still, thoughts of Arya shoved far and away. "Bran says wildlings carry off women to the Others," Sansa muses, returning to the subject. He wonders if this is the most inane conversation they've ever had. He does know this is the longest stretch of time they've spent together _alone_. This closeness will only continue before either of them can return to Winterfell and Castle Black, respectively, but he finds doesn't mind. Journeying all over the realm with Sansa is much better than going at it by himself. She's both familiar and new, recognizable among strangers but a stranger herself when they are unattended. Inexplicably, he wants to see more. He wants to _know_ more.

"Are they working together?" She asks, drawing his attention back to her.

"I don't know." He doesn't, he even doubts it, but he's been wrong at the Wall too often to put huge stock in his own appraisal of the unknown.

"You'll beat them," Sansa tells him. Jon wishes he can feel the same, despite the honing his skills in the yard at Castle Black. Ser Rodrik's guidance of Jon will be put to the test against the likes of Alfyn Crowkiller, Rattleshirt, Harma Dogshead, and the Weeper. _They will call you men of Night’s Watch now_ , Thorne had sneered when it came time for Jon and the other boys to take their vows, _but you are bigger fools than the Mummer’s Monkey here if you believe that. You are boys still, green and stinking of summer, and when the winter comes you will die like flies._ Ser Alliser and Sansa are two extremes, chirping and snarling in Jon's ears with equal weight. "Starks always win," Sansa adds, more familiar in her assurances.

 _Not Father_ , Jon wants to say just as much as, _I'm not a Stark_. The words stall and die in his windpipe.

Sansa seems to realize her mistake and clears her throat, changing the subject so fast that Jon knows she must be genuinely flustered.

"Should we sleep?" She asks, unable to hide her awkwardness from him. Jon sees it. He feels the strain of the unsaid bearing down on the both of them now, stealing the closeness away as quickly as the Wall sucks the warmth from one's bones. "The storm is still...going," she observes, meekly.

Sleeping is a lot easier than speaking. "Aye."

Jon fetches the bedroll and lays it out flat, then draws Sansa over by the hand so she can lie down and draw the blanket up to her chin. Jon's clearing pebbles so he can rest alongside her, resigned to a kip on the ground, when Sansa's hand closes around his wrist. "We can share," she suggests, tightening her grip when he doesn't answer soon enough. "Jon, please," she says, anxiousness chasing the words to his ears so fast that he's forced to wonder exactly where it came from. She seems to be reading him like he's reading her, but incorrectly. "I didn't mean—I'm _sorry_."

"I'm not angry with _you_ ," Jon mutters, too resentful by half and hating the sound of it. Donal Noye steals into Jon's thoughts like an arrow. _You're a Snow, not a Stark_ , Noye had snapped at him after Jon humiliated his new brothers. _Remember that. You’re a bastard and a bully._

It's mostly a truth and pieces of a lie, merging together into a misdirection. Sansa never did Jon any harm save for her distance and clear loyalty to Lady Stark. He's angry with...well, everyone, but it's all familiar hurts and old annoyances, bolstered by fresh damages. Father, for going south and never coming back; his mother, for never looking for Jon; both of them, for making Jon the bastard he is; himself, for forgetting his place and his duty when a two front war at the Wall approaches without abandon; Lady Catelyn for never letting Jon forget who he was; Tyrion Lannister, for reminding him of it and doing little to help Jon complete his mission as Hand of the King; Joffrey, for cutting Father's head off, Joffrey, for hurting Sansa, Joffrey and the queen for stealing Arya...there's too much for him to favor just one grievance. "It's nothing," he relents, grudgingly.

"Are you certain?"

"No," Jon admits, removing his boots and sodden cloak and placing them next to Sansa's. He climbs into the bedroll next to her, discomfort chasing the disgruntlement away. It's a tight fit, to Jon's mingled surprise and shame—Sansa's body is jammed in right next to his own, putting them nose-to-nose and knocking their knees together. He supposes he's going to have to get used to such cramped quarters, and sooner rather than later. For the foreseeable future, they'll be sharing if they want to stay warm, if they want to stay near to one another, if they want to avoid Sansa getting recognized (and Jon himself, to stave off any hint of his disloyalty to the Watch). Featherbeds and clean rushes and nice clothes will give her away instantly, as well as deplete the Watch's coffer that Jon has been put in charge of after Conwy's death. He has to settle. He has to do his duty.

"I'm sorry, Jon," she mumbles, still stuck on the suggestion of his wroth. He takes pity on her, wondering where it came from again. She was always eager to please, but not for people beneath her and not to this degree to all above herself. This is...fear, Jon realizes, concerned.

She has nothing to be sorry for. "Don't be."

Her breath fans out across his cheek, a warm respite from the chill in the cave. "Truly?"

"Truly," Jon answers. "When I get angry with you, you will know." _That_ he does not doubt. He will fight again with Sansa, if their quickness to argue and squabble is any indication of the journey ahead. He even fought with Arya, despite their closeness in Winterfell.

"You should tell me," says Sansa, tentative in her teasing. "You're always so _sullen_. Otherwise, I'll never know how you feel."

"I'm not sullen," Jon protests, proving both of them right. He sees a flash of her smile in the dark, making the irritation melt away like morning dew.

"Of course you aren't," she demurs, and Jon has to laugh.

* * *

When Jon wakes again, it's light and sunny. Sansa is still asleep, one hand clutching at Jon's tunic. Tucked under Jon's chin, she's half draped across him, hips aligned with his and one leg resting between his own. _Too close!_ Reddening and wishes not _all_ of his body was awake, Jon extricates his arms first, then one leg. He's finally halfway to getting the other one out of the bedroll when Sansa stirs, moving slightly, then gasps in pain.

Still trapped up to his left knee, Jon freezes. "Sansa?" She breathes out an answer, but it's lost beneath agonized wheeze. "What happened?"

"Nothing," she mumbles, all color draining from her cheeks. _That isn't fear. That's pain._ "Don't w—"

"Now who's sullen?" Jon presses, freeing his leg only to crawl closer. Sansa flinches, but doesn't deny it.

"It's..." She sits up, white as milk, and considers Jon, looking uneasy. "I can show you," she admits, "if you won't be frightened...or angry."

They reached a concession yesterday, with Sansa's every promise to honor Jon's wishes if she upsets him, as long as he tells her so. He can't back out of this one without undoing that assurance. _Not when she turns my own words against me._ Trapped in another manner, Jon reluctantly nods. Emboldened by Jon's agreement, Sansa turns her back to him, and puts trembling hands on the hem of her tunic. Jon mistakes it for embarrassment, but with dawning horror, the reason for her modesty becomes clear. Below the borrowed tunic, Sansa's back is a patchwork of cuts and half healed scrapes, all rippled with red and surrounded by bruises of varying colors. _She likes everything pretty_ , Jon finds himself thinking, when his mind manages to form something that isn't senseless rage. He flexes his burned hand, blood boiling. _Like the songs..._

Jon's fitting his fingers against one before he realizes it. He traces a pattern on her skin, like an imprint of knuckles. _A gauntlet_.

"Who did it?" He demands, straining to keep his calm as he recognizes other wounds as whip marks. Steam will blast out of his ears soon, surely.

She whispers it as Jon retracts his hand from her skin, watching his hand shake and spasm with wary eyes. "The Kingsguard."

" _Why_?" She may as well have said Father loved Tywin Lannister. That would've been more believable.

Her eyes meet his, big and blue and sad, sadder than Jon has ever seen before. _She's deciding if she dares lie to me_ , Jon thinks, holding her gaze and standing his ground. They're perched on the bedroll so close to one another that Sansa can breathe the words in his ear and still be heard, using her hand on his arm as leverage to confide the truth and keep him steady with all her strength. "Robb keeps _winning_ ," she explains in halting voice, treating it like a secret rather than public knowledge that is splitting the Seven Kingdoms into two pieces.

Jon feels ice sluice its way into his blood from head to foot, soaring like a tumultuous wave. Bastards are spoiled by treachery, by rage, by passion, they say. It's bad blood, they warn, casting distrustful looks toward people like Jon as if Jon intended to pillage at any moment. He's always doubted that certainty against bastards, always strived to be the opposite of what has been expected of him from haughty highborns (save for his father, and his brothers, and Arya). Seeing Sansa's wounds just makes Jon want to be that bastard bully Noye accused him of being among the other recruits. _Let Joffrey face me in the yard_ , Jon fumes, wishing he had the chance in Winterfell. _Let him see what a bastard like me is capable of._

"You rode for hours," Jon says at last, searching for calm when it is in a dreadfully short supply, "and said nothing?"

Her back straightens, the same back that rested against Jon's chest for hours with aches and pains. "I was afraid," she replies. "It doesn't matter."

"It _does_ matter!" Jon shouts, breaking yesterday's promise to her in one fell swoop. The noise circles the cave, giving off the illusion of a dozen of him shouting at once. "It does matter! They _hurt_ you, Sansa!" He can barely speak.

Sansa stares Jon down. "I'm out of their way now," she reminds him, tartly, spots of red on her cheeks. "I'm _safe_. I'm with _you_."

"He's—" Jon furiously lowers his voice. It's his turn to fret over her feelings, worrying if he's scared her. He can't read Sansa as well as Arya. "He's lucky," Jon continues, sucking in a deep breath to unmoor the tightness of his body, the desire to stomp back to King's Landing and wrap his hands around Joffrey's throat. Robb will likely demand the same honor, if he finds out. "He's _lucky_ ," Jon elaborates, voice shaking, "that I didn't kill him."

"That's why I didn't show you in my room," Sansa admits, wringing out the cap Jon got from Varys and donning it again. "You would've died."

"I wouldn't!"

She narrows her eyes, irking Jon immensely. "Joffrey slept two floors below me. You would've stormed off and gotten yourself killed by Ser Meryn."

Jon has no respect for Ser Meryn Trant. "I'd kill him, too."

"That will get rid of the marks, Jon," Sansa snipes back, drawing the tunic down and then pulling on her boots. "Stop it. You're being childish."

"I am n—" He's loath to prove her point, not after an annoyingly triumphant look gleams in Sansa's eyes. "Go check on Barrow," Jon growls.

"Of course, _my lord_ ," she snaps. It's so damn close to _Lord Snow_ that Jon bares his teeth, but he has no time to answer in kind. Sansa has already flounced off...carefully, Jon notices, cursing his own preoccupation on the matter. He should've known about the wounds already. Somehow, he should've _known_. He hates that he didn't see it, hates that she downplayed it like knights do this sort of thing all the time, hates that she did not deign to say anything in the first place, and most of all, hates Joffrey for commanding it. _Who else would dare do that?_ Jon, to his mingled disbelief and shame, has a sliver of hate in his heart for Robb, too. _Hating him for something he has no control over_ , Jon reminds himself at length, struggling to calm down, _is no worthy thing at all._ And getting angry with Sansa for...for not sharing something that pains her is no noble thing to do, either, Jon realizes, chagrined. _Best you start thinking_ , Noye had warned him, no more impressed with Jon's abilities than Uncle Benjen.

Jon listens. He's learned. He knows better.

Alone in the cave, he sighs, feeling all the force go out of his anger. There is no use for this. There's no use getting upset with things that have gone on without him. He cannot go back and save Sansa from the blows, but he _can_ bring her away, so such a thing never happens again.

Shaking his head, he rolls up the bedroll, tugs on his boots, retrieves Longclaw and his dry cloak, and then joins Sansa outside. They work but don't speak, motions stiff. Sansa helps get everything packed in the saddlebags and obligingly sits behind Jon after he helps her onto Barrow's back.

They're picking their way through the wood again, its edge only about an hour away, when Sansa's arms tighten around Jon's waist.

"I'm lucky, too," she tells him, apropos of nothing, and leans closer than ever so he's forced to listen. "I'm lucky, because you saved me when no one else could or tried," she adds in a quavering voice, breath tickling the nape of his neck. Strangely, he's reminded of the warmth of home—of her home, of Winterfell. "I'm lucky because I won't have to marry him." Softer than before, she continues, sounding sad. "I'm lucky you were there, Jon. So lucky. I would've died in that castle if you didn't care so much about me."

A green boy would've spat something out at her without thinking it through ( _I don't care_ ) but Jon isn't a boy any longer. He's a man of the Night's Watch, the shield to guard the realms of men. If he must be a shield within the realms of men, so be it. And, Jon knows, Sansa is as important to him as the others, as Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon. "You have to tell me when you're upset, too. Or hurt. It's only fair," he says, fashioning her own words into a stand of his own. Jon likes to think that is reasonable, even logical, but half of it is motivated by some unholy mix of spite and grief. He cannot reverse what's already happened to stop her from getting hurt, but he _can_ protect her now, if she only lets him.

Sansa breathes out a laugh, not frustrated with him any longer despite the fact that Jon _has_ been sulking. "Very well," she concedes.

"Really?"

"Really," she assures Jon, no longer playing at generosity, and another concession between them falls into place.

"We'll find you a maester in Bitterbridge," says Jon, squinting when the sunlight slants right into his eyes. He's relieved. Quarreling with Sansa when they cannot rely on anyone but each other and when there is no place to collect his temper are paths Jon intends to avoid at all costs.

"There may be a woods witch in Fawnton," Sansa counters, before pointing out a possibility of a maester's loyalties, something Jon didn't consider.

"And snarks, too?" He asks, if only to save face.

She huffs in exasperation, just as affected as he is by their hard-won middle ground, and flicks a finger at his ear. "Shut _up_ , Jon."

* * *

They get to Fawnton well before midday, grateful to be out of the kingswood at last. Jon trades a few silver stags for eggs, bread, and ale, while Sansa discreetly seeks out a commoner to see to her back at Jon's behest. This town's ruled by House Cafferen, Jon recalls, thinking back to Father's stories. He looks over the busy smallfolk and the distant manor house on a hill, remembering that Lords Cafferen, Fell, and Grandison were beaten by King Robert at Summerhall. They joined the rebels save for Lord Fell, only for every one of these newly minted Baratheon men to die at Ashford.

After a few inquiries, Jon finds Sansa in an absentee crofter's hut, being attended by the man's wife and daughter.

"Thank you, Emma," says Sansa, hastily tugging the tunic down as Jon enters the hut. Too late, Jon averts his eyes and looks elsewhere, but not even he can erase what he has seen of her body. Never allowed in the hot springs while his trueborn siblings were bathing, Jon was forced to wait with the likes of Theon Greyjoy until after the others were finished. It's too intimate to see Sansa's back, but Jon has.

 _The wounds_ , Jon reminds himself, abandoning that peculiar train of thought at once. _I saw naught but the wounds_.

"Thank _you_ , dear," Jon hears Emma reply, sounding pleased. "You have a great skill with the needle."

Jon and Sansa scarf down their food and depart with the sun at its highest point. To Jon's relief, the clouds have long since fled.

"The needle?" Jon prompts when he and Sansa are riding away in a straight shot to Bitterbridge. He hopes to make it by dusk.

Sounding somehow sheepish, Sansa answers him. "It was a trade. She gave me salves and herbs. I mended her and Annara's gowns." Jon assumes the women clued into her gender to accept the trade; posing as a boy wouldn't have lasted long once Sansa's body was exposed.

"You know how to speak to the commons," Jon parrots, and Sansa makes a disagreeing noise.

"It was a fair deal, Jon. It's different."

Jon wonders if this journey will keep the push-and-pull of their arguments going. _Probably_. "No, it isn't," Jon prompts, electing to egg her on.

"Accept a compliment," Sansa orders with an imperiousness beholden only to a lady of her station, and Jon relents, somewhat.

"I couldn't recruit anyone to the Watch in King's Landing." He is still sulking about that, too, all truths told. The Old Bear won't be pleased.

"We'll try elsewhere," Sansa decides, sure as a sailor at sea, and Jon smiles. _We_ , he muses, guiding Barrow on. He likes the sound of that.


End file.
